


Version 2.0

by Elizabeth1985



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Artistic Castiel (Supernatural), Best Friends, Business Partners, DCBB, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2017, Dom Castiel, Friends to Lovers, Genius Dean, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Restraints, Roommates, Spanking, Sub Dean, Tattooed Castiel, Tattooed Dean, Yoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-08 12:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 75,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12864330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth1985/pseuds/Elizabeth1985
Summary: Life is nothing but a series of processes. We rise, we work, we function within the walls we’ve designed for ourselves. Dean Winchester does not deviate from this system. Heavily tattooed and a certified genius; Dean necessitates control. Relationships are a no-go. Too messy, unpredictable. And yeah, he knows having casual sex with his best friend, roommate, and business partner is a dumbass move. But Cas’ suggestion is impossible to resist.What Dean doesn’t expect and couldn’t possibly predict is the unique way Cas manages to shut down his mile-a-minute mind, giving him a level of inner peace he’d thought to be unattainable.What starts out of convenience morphs into a dynamic emotional slide neither of them were prepared for, forcing them to decide what they’re willing to risk.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I almost can't believe I'm finally posting this. I thought last year's fic was difficult but man.... I had no idea how hard it would be to write while pregnant. My brain is perpetually fucking scrambled. I hope you guys like it! 
> 
> Please note, the chapters are draft posted so I'm going through one at a time, giving one last skim through and hitting post, so the entirety of the fic probably won't be fully up until closer to ten EST, probably, just FYI. I'm preggo and tired so bear with me! :D
> 
> Also... due to above mentioned bun-in-the-oven status, there may have been some last minute edits and I sincerely hope there aren't any major spelling or grammatical errors for these final tweaks, but if there is (or if I need to add any other tags), please let me know! My tumblr is: [Cocklesheadboop](http://cocklesheadboop.tumblr.com)
> 
> As always, I could not have done it without the following beta's and motivators: [Tennyo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tennyo/pseuds/Tennyo) and  
> [ProfoundBondofLove](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfoundBondOfLove/pseuds/ProfoundBondOfLove)  
> After a slight hiccup with artists, hence the delayed posting date, I was connected with an amazing artist and he created some fucking incredible pieces for this fic. I'm sooooo thrilled about the art and I hope you all check it out and like/comment/reblog!! Here's his tumblr: [Subtextiel](https://feathergrave.tumblr.com/) and his Twitter: [Subtextiel](https://twitter.com/subtextiel) AND here is the art masterpost: [ART LINK](https://feathergrave.tumblr.com/post/168060723325/version-20-oh-my-goodness-i-had-such-an-amazing)

Every day is the same.

Dean Winchester’s alarm goes off precisely at 6:37 a.m. because he can’t fucking stand waking up to anything so normal as six-thirty or seven. Though the time is odd and random, he never changes it. Anarchy and control coexisting in the most mundane, underappreciated way.

No monotonous beeps or elevator-worthy coma-inducing melodies rise from his phone. No fucking thanks. It’s the battering, blaring cacophony of hard rock and metal that abuses his eardrums instead. Necessary auditory violence to jumpstart his brain into consciousness.

This, he does change. Month-by-month, he swaps his selection from Metallica to Rage Against the Machine, to Pantera, to whatever the hell seems most acoustically offensive at the time.

Shit, there's really no better way to greet an unwelcome morning than by having James Hetfield scream at you.

Not to mention, Dean needs the constant barrage to ensure he doesn’t fall back asleep. Being unconscious is the only time his brain ever fucks off. And once he’s shut down, climbing back out of that damn hole ain’t easy.

Hence... the noise.  

And same as every other damn day, two hard thuds echo through the wall behind his head.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mumbles, punching back on the drywall once.

He reaches over and gives his nightstand a shove. With only the slight agitation, the app he designed picks up on the vibration and cuts off the hard-rock rooster call. It was a simple thing he made after one-hundred-thousand too many mornings of blindly feeling out for his phone’s smooth screen only to wind up nudging the fucking delicate device straight onto the hardwood floor. Just because he _can_ fix a busted screen doesn’t mean he wants to.

Throwing off his heavy grey duvet, Dean climbs out of bed—his body stiff, the wood cool and flat beneath the soles of his bare feet. With half-lidded eyes, he shuffles to the door.

In the wide apartment hallway, touting his bare ass and inked skin, he passes his roommate, business partner, and best friend. Talk about a trifecta of constant togetherness.

At this ungodly time of day, Castiel Novak is nothing more than a sleepy glare, pillow lines, and chaotic dark hair.

Roommates of the world might have a problem with Dean’s stark nudity and lack of apology for it, but he and Cas have been sharing space for about eight years—four in university, four since.  

All decency goes out the window after that long of a cohabiting stint. Once you’ve wrestled in sweaty underwear for a spot in front of the window-sized box fan during a sweltering Manhattan heat wave, few boundaries remain.

As per usual, they don’t speak as they stumble past each other.

Not Dean’s preference; he tends to be rather chatty in the mornings once he’s actually vertical. A little hi-how-are-ya to the neighbours outside, bit of a flirt with the local barista. That sort of thing. But Castiel… yeah, that man has a solid murder-eye he enjoys dishing out if you try to make his brain crank gears before he’s been injected with coffee.

Dean ducks into the Ikea-catalogue bathroom, doesn’t bother to close the door and takes a piss. He stares at the Eric Lacombe above the toilet. It’s a shared favourite. The depiction of monster and man combined, captured in blacks and reds and muted browns. It’s not in-your-face sinister but denying its hellish nature is impossible.

Dean greets it everyday, contemplating the balance of his own persona.

In a half-tuned way, Dean listens to Cas readying the coffee. Followed by the muted pads of his buddy’s socked feet moving back down the hall where he’ll lay on his bed until Dean brings him a full mug of go-juice.

This is their routine, and it more or less hasn’t changed in close to a decade.

Dean flushes the toilet and detours to his room on the way to the kitchen. He snags his phone and throws on some boxer-briefs. Vibrant blue today.

Moving to the small square kitchen, he opens the scheduling app he designed. None of the others suited his needs. Pretty interfaces, but limited. With his coding skills and Cas’ stellar design work, he now has both.

There is only one bagel left because it’s Friday. Dean slices it and sticks it in the toaster oven. He pours coffee into two mugs, one he leaves on the island for himself and the other he carries back to Cas’ room.

When he walks into the messy colourful space, he frowns—wishing as he does every day that Cas would let him clean it. Fucking pigsty. _But_ after doing so without asking in university earned him an earful about privacy, he’s been diligently keeping his neurotic tendencies at bay for the last eight years and some odd days.

Cas doesn't sleep in the buff like Dean.

But christ,  he might as well... given the way his boxers are never fully in place come morning. Guy tosses and turns like a fussy toddler when he sleeps. Already passed out again, Cas is on his back sprawled across the mattress, the sheet wrapped around his knee, a pillow over his outstretched tattooed arm and partially shoved under his chin. Deep brown hair stuck to his temple. A faint trail of dark hair traces a line from his belly-button to the just visible edge of his pubic region.

“Morning sunshine,” Dean says quietly.

Nada. Dead to the world, this guy.

Dean learned early on never to nudge Cas awake with a mug full of blistering hot coffee. Second-degree burns just aren’t worth it. Instead, he lingers until the smell saturates the air and his morning greeting carries through the fog.  

Eventually, Cas flinches, grumbles, and sits up. With his blue eyes hidden behind sleepy lids, he blindly reaches for the cup. Dean guides the cool handle into Cas’ waiting fingers, suffering a second’s burn as the curve of ceramic briefly greets his skin. But like the coffee itself, this too wakes Dean up.  

By seven-fifteen, Cas is leaving on his pedal bike to go to work. Dean will follow suit about twenty minutes later on his much-loved 1978 Harley Shovelhead, but only after some needed solo time. Which basically translates into taking his coffee into the bathroom, opening a game on his phone and doing his business in utter solitude.

It’s odd though, he supposes, how they leave at different times on different modes of transportation when their intended B destination is the same: A graphic design office they jointly own, specializing in website creation, apps, logos, marketing campaigns, etc.

A business they fell into partly by accident and mostly cause they were hungry.

During the summer before junior year at MIT, he and Cas had been craving pulled pork sandwiches and had heard about a kickass food-truck vendor selling “the best sandwiches ever”. _Apparently._ Turns out the fucking place was cloaked or some bullshit because they never did find it.

Maybe it was kismet. Or fate. Or Tinkerbell. Who the fuck knows.  

Because one of them had said something along the lines of: “Wouldn’t it be great if there was an app for that?” It’s strange how one sentence, one nanosecond of time, spawned on the heels of a craving for shredded meat, could change the course of their lives.

Then again, quality meat _is_ life-changing.

The app idea rolled into a tireless couple nights of Dean putting to use his coding skills, incessant phone calls to vendors, and Cas mocking up the graphics. After one or two brief arguments over Cas wanting to go exorbitantly lavish with the theme and Dean telling him if he had to code that schmancy shit for a food-truck app he was going to claw his friggin’ eyes out, they managed to get something up and running.  

Of course, all this went down long before there were a million apps for everything under the sun. Hell, smartphones were only just starting to become a thing. It’s amazing what the need for something decent to eat can accomplish.

After “Truck-It Eats” became popular, more apps followed and they couldn’t stop. Smartphone software spiralled into website design, logo creation, graphic marketing, etc. Before they knew it, they had a growing company to manage between a demanding undergraduate schedule. By graduation, it had become a profitable well-known business.

With the formal creation of ONE / OH / SIX, any aspirations they had for the future got pushed aside in favour of seeing it through. They went from a dorm room (#106, surprise surprise) to a two-bedroom apartment in Greenwich Village on West 15th.

All in all, Dean has zero regrets. Running a business with his best friend is more than he ever could’ve asked for. They’re making bank and he’s his own boss; what’s not to love?

So. Let’s be logical here.

All of this _should_ add up to some kind of happiness, or a moderate equivalency. Right? But no such luck. Patterns of old are getting tiresome. He gets up, he works. Every now and then he goes and gets laid but lately, he’s just been feeling kind of _meh_ about the whole fucking strangers business.

That’s not to say he’s not horny. Cause, oh, he’s horny. In a twenty-four seven, can’t stop thinking about it kind of way.

True enough, Dean’s always been hot in all senses of the word. Hot-blooded, hot-headed. But the recent decline in his desire to bang randoms has him worrying.

Giving him definite suspicions. Awful suspicions.

That maybe, just maybe, the reason his normal parade of strange ass isn't cutting it is that maybe he no longer wants random. Maybe he’s sick and tired of being worried about whether they’re carrying some gnarly disease. Or they’re married. Because let’s face it, he’s at that age now. People are pairing off.

The bigger question isn’t what’s he to do now because heck the internet has an abundance of porn for the taking. No, no. The question he wants to know, what he’s too emotionally stunted to unravel himself, is whether he’s simply tired of the game or he’s craving something else. Something monogamous. Something in the realm of going out and finding a suitable mate. Clubbing them over the head and dragging them back to his cave.

Or, you know, something less of a caveman mythological fairytale.

Besides, who the fuck would he settle down with? He’s a neurotic head case who writes code for a living and goes to cosplay festivals with his geekiest employee. Considering he and Cas run a software and marketing design firm… being buds with the _geekiest_ employee is really saying something. And not anything good on his part.

Oh, and there’s also the moving target of his sexuality. Not to add any complications or anything! Fuck. His brain is just all sorts of scrambled regarding the boobs and dick situation. One day it’s like _yeah_ check out those and _oooh_ she has a gorgeous smile. But then wham, it’s Thursday, and suddenly he’s all _well some dick would be nice._

Cas thinks it’s funny. Tells him unequivocally that he is probably bi, and Dean can settle nicely into that category should he so wish.

But why have a category at all?! Dean’s of the mind some things aren’t meant to be categorized. All the power to the undecided! Freedom to fuck… or _not_ to fuck! Whatever, whoever, whichever, however… with what, on who…

Okay, now he’s turning himself on. Somehow.

Not the time, Winchester. Actually… he should probably check the time.

Dean takes a cursory glance of the stove clock while he rinses his mug and places it in the dishwasher, studiously ignoring the partial he’s got going on downstairs. Ten minutes to go. Dean wipes the already clean counter and adjusts the dishcloth hanging from the oven handle.

He likes things neat, okay. Besides, with Cas as a roommate, if Dean doesn’t keep things in order the damn place would be in perpetual chaos. Quickly, he heads back to his room to put on more clothes than his current getup of primary blue boxer-briefs.

Their office may be casual but ninety-percent nude is probably a shade _too_ casual. Even for Charlie, he snorts. Damn ballsy redhead.

Dean opens his double-door closet, revealing a shallow walk-in and a mirror hanging from the inside of each door. Surveying his collection of this and that, he glimpses his physique on the sidelines. Parts of his body stand out in the crisp reflection.

Dark lines, flashes of colour, and bold patterns.

Various tattoos decorate his skin, old and new, stretching over his decently muscular six-foot-plus frame. Some are meaningless, others carry truckloads of history he often prefers to ignore.

But that sort of thing happens when both your parents are six-feet under.

He lets out a long breath through his mouth. Not a day goes by he doesn’t miss them. Even though he barely knew his mother, being four when she died. And his father? Well, John Winchester wouldn’t have ever won a father-of-the-year award. Being a neglectful drunk has that effect. Still, John _was_ his father.

A father who went and got himself killed, unfortunately. It hurts, but Dean remembers what he has. Awesome younger brother, extended family, kickass best friend. Life moves on, and all that shit. The tattoos he has, the ones that remind him of his parents, are vestiges of those relationships he’s lost; an ode to the Mary and John he knew as a kid.  

Dragging himself out of the reverie, he snags a black, long-sleeve shirt from a shelf and tugs it on. It’s mid-November and cold enough to warrant layers so he reaches for a green-grey button-up and some jeans.

Once he’s dressed, he ducks into the bathroom again. He brushes his teeth and stares back at himself, watching the white minty foam slather over his lips. Faceted green eyes stare back, assessing the man in the mirror.

At the arguably young age of twenty-six, he looks a little run down. There are lines on his face he was sure weren’t there two years ago. Were they even present two days ago? Who the fuck knows.

Maybe he needs to buy face cream or something.

He supposes this is what he gets for deciding to take Computer Science and Engineering at fucking MIT. Hours upon hours staring at a screen, nights without sleep. Coffee being chugged by the keg. Truth be told he could be doing far more innovative things with his time than running a graphic design and marketing business.

But why the hell would he? He works alongside his most favourite person and has close to zero stress in his life.

Dean spits in the sink and wipes the water from his lips and chin, taking stock of his two-day-old scruff. It softens the hard edge of his jaw, while at the same time roughens his entire appearance. A face he’s been complimented on his whole life, nothing but a collection of features he’s considered a blessing and a curse. Symmetry is all it boils down to. Well, that, and apparently a fuckable mouth. Or so he’s been told.

Tip to the masses, never ever tell someone any part of their body is fuckable. They might be inclined to beat you senseless. Until you’re a whimpering mommy-pleading mess.

Not that he’s done anything like that of course. No, no. Never.

Dean turns away from the mirror, where time seems to speed up and he’s out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Their office on West 13th is only a short drive from their place. Parking is a nightmare, but thankfully he rents a motorcycle-sized space from a nearby condo. ‘Course what he pays for the spot, he should fucking live in the garage, but hey… it’s Manhattan. 

Walking through the glass entrance, he’s greeted by Becky. A mostly too-perky, hard-to-look-at woman who he suspects might be stalking his younger brother. But seeing as Sam Winchester is a tall, decent-looking vet intern chugging through school, there are always a few Manhattanite ladies swooning over the guy.  It’s gotta be that stupidly luminous Pantene-commercial approved mane of his, Dean figures. Well that, and the fact the he’s all about taking care of furry things.  Women go wild for that shit.

Dean throws shiny-bright Becky a brief wave and navigates the open floor plan of desks to the back, where there’s a print and server room, storage closet, plus his and Cas’ semi-shared office. On his way through, he nods and says hi to their various employees. 

A total of ten now, five designers and five coders. Some are quiet and lacking in personality, others have an abundance of it. Charlie for one, the upbeat super nerd who basically manages the place, works design and code alike. And then Ash, an unrepentant pothead with a mullet whose IQ makes Dean practically average. Kevin, a quieter one who happens to share many of Dean’s neuroses and of all them in the office, it’s usually Kevin and Dean who head out around two in the afternoon to get second shots of caffeine to make it through the day. 

Dean and Castiel more or less share an office. One giant corner of space on the ground floor. Large panels of moveable glass make up the wall behind their desks and opens to an inner court shared with the buildings around them. While it sounds nice in theory, it’s rarely used, and has become derelict and grungy. 

Every summer, Dean tells Cas, “Come on, let’s fix it up!” And Cas replies, “Okay, let’s do it.” But then nothing ever happens cause time is a finicky bitch. One day it’s April and then it’s slap-you-in-the-face Christmas. 

Seriously, that’s how it happens. Yesterday it was spring. Now it’s November. 

Between their demarcated spaces is a nine-foot high, backless shelving unit, spanning most of the depth of the room. Its grid of open cubicles are filled with photos and business awards, a few textbooks from school, and other reference materials. But mostly, Cas’ art dominates the square footage. They’re all awesome, but Dean’s favourite by far is the condiment-medium Constantine masterpiece Castiel created in third year when he was drunk off his ass. 

Amazingly, it has never given off any odours. They've always joked that if they ever got trapped in a building collapse and didn’t want to starve they could eat Cas’ painting. And then each other! Cutting off arms and frying them up. 

They  _ may  _ or  _ may not _ have been very high for this conversation. 

Dean ducks over to Cas’ side of the office before he heads to his own. “Yo.”

“Hmm,” grumbles his best friend, eyes narrowed on the screen. 

“You working on the Galton project?”

“You mean the dog psychic’s website…,” Cas frowns at him, “yes, sadly I am.”

Dean laughs. “Money’s money. Besides, how else will the beloved dogs of rich bastards be heard?”

There’s a responsive snort. Cas shakes his head and beckons Dean over. “Tell me, which logo do you prefer…  _ this _ painfully horrific one… or  _ this _ painfully horrific one.”

Chuckling under his breath, Dean braces a hand on Cas’ shoulder and leans towards the screen, surveying both options. Despite the laughable content, his best friend has managed to turn a surefire joke into something reputable. 

Goddamn miracle-worker.

“Christ, you’re talented,” he murmurs under his breath, drumming his fingers on the desk as he studies the graphics. 

The single-sided profile of a dog, simple line-work, transitions into a faded abstract geometric eye. The curves in the dog perfectly contrasting the geometric representation of the eye. The other logo is a similar take on the same concept, but with added flourish. Given the nature of the business, Dean recommends he go with the second option. 

“I agree,” says Cas, his hand absently reaching to stop the movement of Dean’s fingers, crisp blue eyes scrutinizing his own work. 

After a satisfied nod, an unnecessary sign-off on the job, Dean’s on his way out when his friend speaks up, the vibe of his words familiar. “It happened again.”

“What did?” he asks innocently.

Cas groans and pegs him with a look. “The porn, Dean,” he chastises. “You can’t keep getting up in the middle of the night and watching porn without headphones. I do not entirely like being woken up by some random voice going: ‘ _ Ooohhh yeaaaasss fuck me… just like that.’” _

Jesus, Cas has such a sex voice. All deep and thick. It’s so hard being friends with someone who sounds like they should run a pay-by-the-minute eight-hundred number. 

“You realize the door is open, right?” Dean gestures to the gaping glass door, where their collection of ten employees are clacking away. 

They hear Charlie’s voice carry over, “No one gives a shit, boss!”

Cas throws Dean a smug look. “See.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll use headphones. You know we wouldn’t have this problem if you weren’t such a light sleeper.”

“Or if you didn’t watch porn practically every night. It’s excessive. I’m worried you’re going to break something.”

“Ha. Ha. I'm just fine thank you,” Dean says, waving his fully functioning hands and wrists in the air. “Besides, relationships are complicated… one night stands are getting kinda…” Dean shrugs in the useless void of his unfinished sentence.

Mullet-sporting Ash yells back to them, “...Sleazy, sordid, tacky, trashy—“

“—Jesus, are you reading from a thesaurus?” Dean asks through the partition.

“My brain’s a thesaurus, man!”

Dean shakes his head. Fucking meddlesome staff. “As I was saying. Relationships are full of rusty mouse traps and being slutty isn’t as fun as it used to be… so me and porn and my hand are gonna continue to have a grand ol' time.”

“With headphones,” Cas interjects. 

“With headphones, your highness,” Dean says, taking a sarcastic bow and accidentally bumping his ass against the bookshelf.   

Without another word, Cas cocks an eyebrow at Dean’s dorky nature and goes back to work. The clicking of a mouse trails in the background as Dean u-turns around the bookcase. 

Where Cas’ space is pointedly in disarray, Dean’s is crisp and efficient. 

Considering how well they get along, it’s sometimes shocking how glaringly different he and his best friend-slash-business partner are. 

Dark brown hair to his dirty blond. Blue eyes versus green. But it’s more than looks. 

Castiel is messy and defiant, creative to his core. When he interacts with others, he’s quiet, curious, but most of all studious. If you think he’s being silent because he’s uninterested, you’d be light years from the truth. He’s a great judge of character but pretty damn selective. 

The guy doesn’t make friends easy, so Dean counts himself pretty fucking lucky. 

As for Dean? 

Yeah, he is neither messy nor defiant. And while he can be creative, he prefers to live within the boundaries of straight lines and rational thoughts and monochrome arguments most of the time. In groups, he’s loud and boisterous. Ready with a smile or a grin, a joke on the tip of his tongue.

All his regimented behaviour, and his abrasive exterior, were both traits raised into his personality by his father. Dean’s father, John Winchester, had always been the master of control, making Dean clean his room and make his bed military style, organize his toys, and fold his damn underwear—something he still does to this day. 

Hell, the guy taught him how to strategically take apart an engine by the time he was twelve. 

Whether it was because his dad was alone much of the time, or some other reason, John eventually took to the drink. A lot of those military types fell to the same disease.

They say it’s genetic. Alcoholism. Dean’s careful when he drinks nowadays. Though it’s not always easy given his nature.

Glancing around his office, Dean sees the stark influence of his father and the in-your-face contrast from his buddy next door. 

On the far side wall, there’s a five-foot long stunning picture of the 67’ Chevy Impala that was his father’s most prized possession before he died. Soft blacks and whites captured within a matte chrome frame. His dad leaning a hip against the quarter panel, holding Dean in the air by one hand. Even his summer freckles show in the photograph, boyhood immortalized by a toothless grin and gangly limbs. 

Happy memories. Once upon a time. 

His desk is glass and metal, the surface a collection of spaces meant for specific things. Piles of to-do items go in the bottom-right corner near his keyboard. Outgoing mail in the top left. His phone to the left of the computer, voicemail pad directly beneath it. 

Everything is exactly where it should go and not an inch out of place. 

Dean hears Cas mumble under his breath next door, a curse probably, and he pictures his best friend’s workspace, so fresh and imprinted in his mind. Haphazard papers, unstacked and unorganized. Walls decorated with colourful art and thought-provoking nameless pieces most employees aren’t sure whether it’s legitimate art or just something Cas found amusing and tacked up.

Shit, their dorm room had resembled a before and after shot for a maid service. Or as Dean often joked, left brain and right brain.  

Even their tattoos are different. 

Dean sporting notably darker work, nothing exactly imaginative but more a loud expression of his inner indefinable demons and a side-offering of nerd. Control encasing the chaos. 

Arguably the largest, draped over his right shoulder, ink sinking down his bicep and up his neck is a two-headed monster—one head curving around the front towards his collarbone and the other stretching around to his back. The beast reminds Dean of the alien from the 1980’s Predator series… if said alien mated with a Games of Thrones dragon and gave birth to some fierce badass baby. 

In the lower-left quadrant of his back, he has a verbatim quote from his father, words from years ago, from the one rare moment the man had ever told Dean he was proud of him. Dean hardly thinks of it nowadays, but it’s a nice reminder of what his dad could’ve been if not for losing his wife and taking to the bottle.  

Above the quote from his dad, is the runner-up tat for square footage on his skin, and arguably, the darkest of them all. It’s a grey-toned expertly shaded grim reaper. Hooded, shadowed skull-like face beneath, hollow eyes. It takes up about one-third of his back, part of it blended right into the monster he’s got on his shoulder. 

On the scythe, Dean had Meg etch in the dates of each of his parent’s deaths. 

The only other semi-dark tat would be the wolf and skull combo he got done on the back of his thigh earlier that year. 

His brother’s birth date is written out in binary along the inside of his right forearm—a blended expression of his nerdism and love for his brother. 

Over his left pectoral is an inflamed pentagram, representative of the five elements. He read about it in a book years ago in some absurd elective class, a symbol to ward off negative energy or so he recalled. Cas drew it out while they studied one night. 

Dean’s not whacky. It’s not as though he actually  _ believes _ it does anything but, hey, it can’t hurt either.  

There are others too, flourishes of ink he wanted more for the process than the outcome. Sometimes the buzzing of the tattoo gun and the numbing pain is all he’s after. A twisted thrill he can’t explain. Usually, him and Cas chilling out with Meg, their go-to tattoo artist, all three of them shooting the shit and having a good time.

And thennnnn there are the nerdy tats. Ones he should be embarrassed about. Such as the wicked top-down line-work of the serenity ship from Firefly. Cas drew it on a Saturday afternoon for him while they chowed down on fresh bagels. It now sits permanently on the upper left curve of his ass. He calls it the hip region, Charlie calls it tramp-stamp adjacent. 

No one even knows he had Meg work in the Dr. Sexy logo into his monster tat. Not even Cas knows about that one. 

Smirking to himself, Dean’s cheeks flush over his embarrassing and unnatural love of the primetime hospital drama. He drags a hand over his mouth to wipe away the stupid grin. 

Dean leans back in his leather seat and fires up his dual-screen Mac. He cracks his neck, not entirely feeling awake yet.

As he pulls up the day-to-day programs, he absently pictures his best friend’s collection of permanent art, thinking of the differences between their skin.

Cas’ body is nothing short of a masterpiece. And no, he’s not referring to Cas’ runner’s physique. Although that's kind of perfect too. No beer gut for that guy, the damn yoga hippie. 

But no, Dean’s current appreciation has nothing to do with exercise. Not entirely. 

Cas’ tattoos are an interwoven beautiful web, designed to take advantage of the natural lines of muscle and bone. Watching Cas do poses in the apartment on Sunday mornings is like looking at an optical illusion. 

Absently, Dean reads through emails, half his mind still cataloguing Cas’ artistic ingenuity. The various abstracts, flora, fauna, geometry,  and nameless representations of humanity are inked mostly down the right side of his upper body, a crisp split between flesh and colour down his spine. Swirls interrupted by quotes from his favourite books curling around his arm. The inside of his right forearm is a bee-hive grid of chromatic swatches. As if he could almost wet a brush and paint off his own skin. 

The man’s left arm is bare, his legs mostly too, save for the star chart on his left outer thigh, but he’s talked more and more about curving the wave of ink from his right side over. It’s been awhile since either of them have gone to see Meg for work actually. But both of them always have some idea nagging to be inked, a new piece festering in the back of their minds. 

All thoughts of tattoos and his best friend are brushed aside as four new emails drop into his inbox one after the other. 

_ Looking for a new logo…  _

_ Do you do websites?  _

_... Promo campaign  _

_... RFP.  _

Dean sighs. Do these asshats even read the company website? Because if they had, they would know that on the first page it says  _ WE DO WEBSITES. _ Ugh, whatever. He adjusts the items on his desk even though they’re in perfect alignment and hits reply on the first. 

 

By lunch, he’s tired as balls. Or… wired? He’s not sure, feels like both. Fuck, he’s a living contradiction. None of this pre-to-midlife crisis is because of work; he doesn't think. Coding is second-nature and he could do it blindfolded and drunk if he had to. 

In fact, he’s done just that. Fourth-year was a gongshow. 

Is he lonely? 

Is that seriously what it boils down to? Does he actually want to check his significant other box on medical forms from now on? How fucking daunting. Any time Dean thinks of relationships he imagines cryptic conversations and unspoken arguments. The never ending tally of who cleaned this or that and whose turn it is to make dinner or clean the bathroom. 

It wouldn’t annoy him so much if he wasn’t so fucking horny all the time. It’s like somehow Dean missed the ‘chill’ gene. He’s like a blender that runs all day, getting their cord ripped out at eleven and plugged back in the next morning.

This go-go-go personality does have its perks. And being hungry nearly all the time is one of them. One of these days his no-holds-barred diet will catch up to him, but so far he’s been doing alright. 

Dean scrunches his nose and wonders what he’s gonna eat. 

“Yo Cas! Hamburgers?”

“Mmngh,” Cas grumbles back, likely sitting half an inch away from his screen, giving himself eyeball cancer no doubt. “Be ready in a minute.” 

Riiiight. Heard that one before. Dean pushes out of his chair and heads to Cas’ side. “Put down the mouse and back away.”

Unimpressed as he tends to be, Cas throws Dean a look over the top of the computer. But Dean has a way of getting him up and out. 

He shuffles over to the outlet and reaches for the cord. “Don’t make me do it,” he taunts.

“No, no! Okay!” Cas throws his hands up and vacates the chair. “Happy?”

Dean gives him a wide, cocky smile. “Worked since freshman year… still going strong.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel can’t stop staring. Why must his best friend eat as though he’s burying his face between a woman’s legs?

“Ahhhhhmygawwd,” Dean moans, perfect lips wrapped around a greasy burger. 

Clearing his throat, Castiel looks down at the metal table. “People are staring.”

“I don’t care.” Dean mumbles through half-chewed cow. “I love this burger. I would marry this burger.”

A laugh breezes from Castiel’s chest. “And here I thought you planned to stay single forever.”

“Cas,” Dean reasons with him, “a significant other made of ground meat and delicious bacon smothered in cheese is a definite keeper.”

Alright, Castiel will admit… the burgers from this particular street vendor are phenomenal. Heavenly, if there was such a thing. But perhaps half the reason Cas enjoys it as much as he does is the free pornographic show he gets. Courtesy of one best friend. 

Yes, Castiel has feelings for his best friend. 

Sue him. 

It’s a horrible thing, certainly. But… only so if said best friend ever finds out. Nothing would or could ever happen anyway. Not only are they friends but they co-own a business and a condo. No way is Castiel planning to mess that up. 

But some days it’s hard. 

To sit there and watch Dean close his eyes and throw out some obscene moan. Or worse, the nights—nearly every night for the last two weeks—Dean watches porn an hour or two after Cas has gone to bed and thinks he has the volume turned low enough. But they share a wall. A thin wall. Every slap and groan and fake cry for release filtering through the plaster. 

It would be far more tolerable if he could hear Dean. But the man is irritatingly quiet when he comes. Perhaps for Cas’ benefit. Though, if it were, you’d think the man would plug in a pair of fucking headphones once in awhile.

Either way, Cas’ crush is a non-issue. He’s been attracted to his best friend for years. It’s another facet of their lives. One Dean is unaware of, and so far everything has been flawless. 

Their lives are impossibly tangled. Castiel long ago concluded there was no sense in setting all those strings on fire.

Dean rolls his eyes back and moans again, thick in the back of his throat. 

“I recommend wearing a condom if you plan to have sex with it,” he tells Dean. 

With a snort, his friend says, “Wise suggestion. Wouldn’t want to get mustard in the peehole!”

Cas shakes his head, reminded of one of the many reasons Dean is a very unique man. For one, he says peehole in public. Who does such things? But also… he is wild and adorably neurotic. No other man Cas has ever known spends Saturdays cleaning with a smile and singing Metallica at the top of their lungs. 

One time two years ago Cas caught Dean cleaning while piss-drunk. When Cas had asked him what he was doing, Dean shook a mop at him—which Cas is positive they hadn’t owned hours prior—and yelled, “There’s never a bad time to mop, Cas! Sometimes a man has  _ got _ to MOP!”

Castiel very much likes having this memory as solid blackmail material. Although, Dean has dirt on him just the same. They have lived together for a long enough time to have resulted in many embarrassing memories stacked up and ready to be used at a moment’s notice. Such as the time Cas’ yoga pants ripped one Sunday morning. Nothing says namaste like the sound of the fabric covering one’s behind being torn open. 

Dean had laughed so hard he fell over, crashed into the kitchen island chest-first and knocked the wind out of himself. 

“So what’s on the agenda for this weekend?” asks Dean. He meets Cas’ eyes and wipes his face clean of burger remnants. 

“I might go see Meg tonight.” He furrows a brow and thinks about the sketch, wondering if it’s developed enough. “I really want to get the ankle piece done soon.”

Leaning over the table, Dean’s eyes widen with genuine interest. “Fuck, I can’t wait! You’re finally breaking your lower leg virginity. I’m pumped.”

“It’s still a work in progress,” he reminds Dean. “Won’t be ready for a couple weeks I’m sure. I’ll see what she can do with it.”

“Woman’s got mad talent.” 

Dean lounges back in the metal chair, killing a little more time before they head back. As they sit in companionable silence, Castiel shifts his focus aimlessly, casually interested in the foot traffic. Hundreds of people blur on behind Dean, walking, biking, in cars. Yellow blips of taxis inching past. Horns blare but Cas tunes it out after a while and watches his best friend. 

The man he’s known for so long is looking as if the world is not a loud and abrasive place at all. With his head angled back up to the bright November sky, the subtle breeze licking at the fabric of his clothes, he could just as well be sitting on a beach. 

There’s only one  _ minor _ fracture in the otherwise calm scene. A subtle shaking of the table. Leaning over to take a sip of his tea, Cas absently moves his foot and presses down on Dean’s to stop the hypermotion of his incessant knee jittering. 

“Should we head back?” asks Cas. He wonders if Dean picks up on the reluctant whisp of his voice. 

Dean sighs, lowers his chin and meets Castiel’s gaze across the table. “Yeah,” he exhales the word. 

They head back without a word and continue on with the rest of their day. 

Castiel thinks it’s probably been too long since he went on a date. Usually, if he dates… his perpetual crush on his best friend settles. A measure of distraction he supposes. It never works for long, because no man as of yet has ever compared to Dean’s intelligence, offbeat humour, and endearing qualities others would find odd. 

Back at his computer, Castiel sees an email from Charlie about planning the Christmas Party. Um, no thank you. Without adding any commentary whatsoever he forwards it to Dean as he’s always done. When it comes to parties, Castiel isn’t the most adept individual. 

Oh, he can drink. Has suffered many a binge in his university days with Dean. But actual planning of festivities sounds about as appealing as getting a tooth ripped out without novacaine. 

Once the dog-psychic email is drafted, logo attached and fired off, Castiel makes a to-do list but he neglects it. He’s part owner after all. He has freedom to procrastinate. 

Biting his lip, he reaches to the bottom drawer of his desk and pulls out the sketch of his most recent tattoo design. He immediately dives in and starts adding in curves and detail, wondering if he wants colour or not. He’s feeling something abstract for this one, maybe an undertone of something elemental like water. But he already knows he wants the top to fade into dot work, disappearing into his calf about one third of the way up. He can see it clearly in his mind but sketching out what is to be a circular design is a small challenge he enjoys. 

An hour later, he reaches a point where he doesn't want to ruin it. Too much fiddling is never a good thing. It took him years as a creative man at heart to learn this. You need to know when to stop. When not to ruin a good thing. 

Kind of like his friendship with Dean. Don't ruin a good thing, he reminds himself. 

But he can satiate his desires with a familiar outlet. A secret outlet. Certainly something he should never do at work in an office full of coders and veritable hackers. But he does because he assumes he has some measure of privacy, being part owner and all. 

And he can’t help himself. He’s indulgent by nature. 

Cas opens up his browser and logs into his very secret gmail account and opens a google document, showing 46,887 words already typed in. 

In line with his creative personality, he dabbles in writing. And said writing happens to be generally rather smutty. Often about Dean. When he first started this exceptionally weird hobby, he used different names. Odd, strange ones stolen from TV Guide. Jensen. Misha. 

Why actors have such ridiculous—

Castiel stops there. Given that his own name is Cas-ti-el (a name of angelic derivation) he probably isn’t one to judge. 

After a while, however, Jensen and Misha weren’t enough. Every story, weaving characters through various scenarios all of which ended in riotous fucking and satiation, was wonderful and when he pictured it playing out… he was always imagining himself with Dean. But reading the other names gave him a twinge every time. One day, a rather frustrating day, he went and changed all instances of Jensen to “Dean” and Misha to “Castiel”. 

Maybe he’s hoping he gets caught. Don’t they say people always want to get caught? Hmm. Maybe slightly, he admits. He doubts it’ll happen though. Dean tried to clean his side of the room in school not even two weeks after they’d met each other. Needless to say Castiel laid into him. 

A man has  _ got _ to have his privacy if he plans to write porn about his best friend. 

This is ridiculous, he thinks. Deplorable. He should have more willpower. He should write something lyrical and thoughtful, original. Maybe he could publish something. 

Or perhaps… he could simply write a two page description of what Dean’s mouth might feel like on his cock. 

It would be smart of him to get a psychiatrist; every one else in Manhattan seems to have one. No doubt a professional would advise him what to do. But he fears they would say:  _ Tell Dean how you feel. _ Or worse:  _ Move out, put distance between you. _

Neither of those things are going to happen. For now he’ll write out his fantasies and pathetic hopes and live vicariously through a word processing program and various combinations of the alphabet. 

There’s something poetic about it, he thinks. Well, not about ejaculation. Not much poetry there. Castiel reads through his last scene and sighs. 

If only. 


	4. Chapter 4

Surprise, surprise. Dean’s horny and wired again. Thank fuck they’re going out. 

He needs a night out  _ bad _ . 

Not at all because he wants a roll in the hay with some stranger. Or, more precisely, a roll in his top quality memory foam bed (because who the hell would get naked in a barn? Seriously).  

No no. Fucking strangers has  _ definitely _ not been on Dean’s radar for a while now meaning the need to get the fuck out of the house is not a mission derived from the needs of his cock. 

Dean simply needs a night out because he's too wired to sit around at home all night and fiddle around with the bowels of the internet. No, he needs  _ noise _ and  _ people _ . Energy. An outer environment that reflects his own inner chaos. 

The buzzing in his head is best suited for a bar. 

The jiving, writhing mass of drunken dancing and the lowkey hum of conversation buried below the music. Not to mention the feeling of alcohol coursing through his veins, no doubt adding to the wild cocktail of hormones he’s got going on. 

They invited the whole crew to come out but only Charlie’s able to meet up with them. Becky is probably off stalking Sam, Ash is no doubt toking up and hacking into, like, the fucking FBI database or something, knowing him. Kevin is probably learning a new language for shits and giggles cause he’s real Type A like that. All the others are more employees than they are friends. 

Whatever. Screw’em.

Just shy of nine, his favourite redhead is pounding on their door. Dean does a little tap tap on his phone and the system he jerry-rigged obediently unlocks and opens the front entrance, letting her stride right in without him having to get off the couch. Okay, yes, it’s an excessively lazy set up but Dean loves tinkering and thinking up kickass software. 

If he’s awake, his brain is running a mile a minute. 

It’s why getting drunk can be great. It’s also why getting drunk mildly terrifies him. Given the road his father went down… and crashed on, Dean knows he needs to keep a tight lid on the alcohol assisted good times. 

Charlie throws her coat and purse on the floor, which sets Dean’s teeth on edge. He throws her a glare, “Dude, I run a clean place here.”

She snorts. “And what? My purse has cooties?”

As a matter of fact. “Statistically,” he begins, ignoring both Charlie and Cas’ eye roll, “there is far more bacteria on your purse than a public toilet so pardon me for being skeeved out by you parading your microbes all over my floor.”

Castiel smiles at Charlie. “As always, I apologize for Dean. He’s a special case.”

“Oh please,” Dean fires across the room, “if I didn't clean we’d be living in squalor.”

Throwing a sly look to their friend, Cas whispers, “He’s a nester.”

“Fucking right I am. The world runs better when everything is in it’s place, folks!”

Charlie and Cas share a look, practically ignoring Dean altogether. Charlie nods decisively. “We need to get him drunk.”

“Indeed,” agrees Cas. 

“Useless, the both of ya!” Dean tromps over and scoops the woman’s purse and goes over to hang it on one of the hooks on the back of the door. Only a small part of him wants to Lysol the floor but he knows they’d make fun of him. “Alright, so where are we going?”

“Well,” Charlie smiles. Castiel is already smothering a chuckle. “Two of us are gay.”

“Ugh,” he starts whining. “We  _ always _ go there.”

Cubbyhole is one of the few mixed bars they all like, this is true.  _ But _ Dean would love to mix it up and wishes they could hit up some grungy dive, like a fucking biker bar. Like The Roadhouse! That place is like home for Dean. Not so much the other two. Cas looks like a school teacher—a hot school teacher, but that hardly matters—and would stick out like a sore thumb. Charlie, oh the wonderful unfiltered nerd that she is, would no doubt chat up the burliest of men and probably start some ridiculous banter with a goddamn Hells Angel of all people.

Alright. Cubbyhole it is. “Fine,” he throws his hands up. “But I’m  _ not _ getting a girly drink this time!”

 

“I caved,” he mutters twenty minutes later, side-eyeing Cas to his right. They both look down at the bar to get a gander of Dean’s schmancy girly drink waiting to be consumed. It’s filled with berries, sugary sticks, and is wearing an umbrella. They stare at it together until Cas clinks the neck of his beer against Dean’s wide-mouthed martini glass. 

“You could always simply admit you like the girly drinks, Dean.”

He sighs. “They  _ do _ taste awesome. Why’s it gotta come with all the extras though?” One at a time, he takes out the umbrella, the little mixer stick and what looks like a lollipop. “Jesus, I could do crafts with the shit coming out of this drink.”

They share a laugh as Charlie comes squirming through the crowd, shaking her hair around and catching the eyes of nearly every woman in the place. Plus a few appreciative men. 

She tosses the errant locks off her shoulders and out of her face, throwing her arms around each of them. Her voice rises and falls with some new story, both him and Cas chiming in at random. They talk and enjoy the evening over several drinks. 

Dean stops after six, he’s on the border of drunk and just past tipsy and that’s all he ever gets anymore. Cas, however, is drinking far more than he normally does. 

Huh. It’s not totally unusual for Cas to drink this hard… but there’s usually a reason for it. 

A poor grade in school, the time his parents sent his sister to their apartment unexpectedly and tried to get him to enter some whack job religious camp to reform his homosexual ways. Dean still remembers the look on Annie’s face when Cas bluntly told her that no amount of church camp is going to curb his cock-related interests. 

Tonight though? That’s a different story. Dean hasn’t a clue what’s driving Cas to pound back shot after shot. 

Confused and a shade worried, Dean peers over at his best friend. After being subjected to a lingering scrutiny, Cas turns and glares at him. Instead of calling Dean out on being a meddlesome hoverer, he darts his eyes down to where Dean’s flicking the flat side of his nails against the bar, then lower to his bouncing knee. 

Rolling his eyes, Dean stops the motion. But the itch to move is still there.

Fuck, maybe his buddy needs a distraction in a not-so-liquid form. It’s been a while since Cas went on a date. Or at the very least, a grind session with some random. 

“Come on, weirdos,” Dean says to his friends, “how about we hit the dance floor before we call it a night. I didn’t throw on this casual scruff for nothing,” he adds, rubbing the line of his jaw.

“Oh yes,” Charlie drones, “Cause growing facial hair is such an accomplishment.”

“I’d like to see you try,” he teases her. 

They jostle their way into the centre of the pumping crowd and start jerking their limbs around like they know what they're doing. In all fairness, Charlie ain’t half bad. Dean and Cas are horrible. Dean dances thinking he looks cool but knows he doesn't. 

And Cas? Well Cas isn’t much of a dancer at all. He sort of does the side to side shuffle, hardly moving. 

Thankfully, Dean is just drunk enough to be stupid. Being perpetually horny in the background and surrounded by a cramped crowd doesn’t hurt either. With a groan, he throws his arms around Cas’ neck and drags the man close. “Damn Cas, you ain’t gonna attract any hotties dancing like a straight dude.”

Cas is awkward as he tries to organize his body close to Dean’s. It’s hilarious as always. 

“I’m not looking for... hotties,” Cas maintains. 

“Right right… ya never liked picking up at bars,” Dean rattles off Cas’ rule. “But man, it doesn’t do well to be so picky!” he tells his friend. “You might find the love of your life here in this upstanding establishment.”

Dean pulls back to peg his friend with an arched brow. But when he meets Cas’ eyes, the man is giving him the strangest look. “I doubt it,” he says tightly. 

“Ugh, you’re so frickin’ difficult sometimes.” Dean shrugs, and tries to rearrange his friend into some semblance of a man who knows how to dance. “Now, dance with me like I’m a dude.”

Cas tilts his head, throwing Dean a stupid grin. “I take it you are not, in fact, a dude then.”

“Shut up, you know what I mean. Let’s make all the men want you.”

“And the women,” Charlie chimes in, poking into their awkward bump’n’grind. Though, most of the bump is coming from the sardine-packed nature of the room. Elbows and hips and backs continuously knocking Dean into Cas’ chest. 

But they’ve been best friends a long time. Drunken dancing is  _ not _ a new thing.

Dean had been wondering, in the far recesses of his mind, if he’d find interest in someone, miraculously, by the time he got to the bar. But, as he predicted, the desire’s just not there. Hasn’t been in a long time now. 

Truth be told, he’d rather spend the night with his friends. Getting a little silly. Dancing it up and being dumb. One hell of a better way to spend the night than fake moaning while some whoever ineptly strokes his dick as Dean lies there worried they have the clap or some shit.

Relationships are overrated. Now, it seems, so are one-night stands. 

Awesome. 

All that leaves Dean perpetually frustrated and spending way too much cash on subscriptions to particular websites. While he  _ has _ the ability to hack and could very well find some work-around to avoid paying for quality porn, he knows the kind of effort that goes into not just the plethora of fucking videos but running the website. Dean makes good bank, he can afford to pay for good jollies. 

Dean turns his thoughts back to the dancing, the  _ uhntz-uhntz-uhntz  _ of the music pounding through the room, through his chest. 

Getting right into it, knowing Cas is drunk enough to let him, Dean slots his leg between Cas’ thighs and pulls him in tight. If they’re going to best friend dance… they're going to  _ really _ best friend dance. 

“Grind it up with me, bestie,” he cheerfully says to Cas, flashing his buddy a bright, tipsy smile. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

Very true, he thinks. Also: Don’t care. 

For a while, maybe an hour or more, it’s hard to tell as one song bleeds into the other, the three of them dance and dance and dance. By one a.m., it’s feeling like it’s time to go. Cas is wasted, Charlie is making out with someone and Dean is dog-tired. He stopped actively dancing with Cas a while ago and is now basically hanging off the man. They’re still grinding together, but it’s a lazy movement of their hips and legs. 

Half the time Dean’s tempted to just take a seat on Cas’ thigh and put an ear to the man’s chest and pretend he’s a beach lounger. But he did that once in university and they fell over. Cas cut his arm on broken glass and they had to go the hospital.

Since then, Dean tries not to fall asleep on people at the bar. Especially while vertical.

“Can we go now?” he whines into Cas’ ear. One hand blindly reaching out at the same time to tug at Charlie’s shirt. The redhead swats him away, not liking the interruption to the liplock she’s in. 

“Definitely.” Cas disentangles from him and moves between a raunchy couple to reach their friend. 

After a few minutes of back and forth, Charlie’s finally backing away from the woman who’s kept her attention most of the night. 

The two are eying each other like love-sick puppies. Dean is annoyed. Envious a little… but mostly annoyed. Why can’t he have that? Is he broken? Can’t stomach relationships, is now totally put off fucking around with strangers. 

Like what the hell?

Nobody interests him these days. But he  _ wants.  _ Ugh. He’s a wanting man without anything to want. Fake perky cheerleaders spell out P-A-T-H-E-T-I-C in his head as the three of them slide through a sea of bodies towards the door. 

Out on the sidewalk, the world is cold and quieter, yet nowhere near silent. Charlie hugs them goodnight and grabs a cab to head back home uptown. Dean raises his arm to flag down a yellow deathtrap on wheels when Cas jumps up and thwacks his arm down. 

“Nooo,” his roommate whines. “Let’s walk.”

Not again. “Hell no. Dude, every single time you get drunk… you want to stumble around New York until the fucking sun comes up. Uhn-uhn, buddy. Not this time.”

Cas frowns, but grudgingly lets Dean hail a cab and get them home in one non-frigid piece. 


	5. Chapter 5

Cas can’t think of anything but the feel of Dean’s thigh between his legs. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before. But it _has_ been a long time.

Fuck, it felt good.

Electrified his body, set his blood on fire. And he knows he’ll dream in skin and touch tonight. An abstract fantasy of sex like artwork that has to be interpreted. Nothing concrete the way a story would be or reality itself.

It would be a blend of sensations mangled together. Scents and sounds in a blur. Pleasure constant and rising, lurching him through the dream into bliss.

He knows his eyes are closed, he knows he’s already starting to fall into the pull of something dark and sensual. But he can’t stop it. The gentle sway of the cab navigating through late-night traffic doesn’t help him retain consciousness whatsoever.

Blackness closes in.

He starts to dream. Skin on skin, gravity pulling him down towards Dean. He kisses Dean’s mouth, watches the man’s green eyes flutter in surprise. The shock is temporary. And then there are tongues involved, hands and fingers roaming around.

Heat and pleasure twisting together. One moment he’s tasting the tight bud of Dean’s nipple, fighting the urge to be inside Dean, the next he’s watching Dean fall to his knees, staring up at Cas with reverent desperation.

The fantasy warps again, they're on the couch, he's on his back and Dean is hovering over him, looking confused… about to pull away.

Castiel whines in protest, reaching for him. He wants to say come back, but only unintelligible murmurs make it past his lips and one singular moaned utterance of Dean’s name. Arousal pounds through his body, an ache, and he arches up, grasping for his best friend but comes away empty-handed.  

Before he can complain more, the image slides away and changes the way dreams do. They’re in the kitchen now, he has Dean’s face in his hands, guiding the man’s head to the side… kissing him, tasting him in slow teasing swirls of his tongue.

Another now; Dean on his hands and knees. Neck wrenched, straining to look over his shoulder, his perfect lips framing demands, “ _Oohhh yeaaaasss fuck me… just—”_

No. Wait. That doesn't sound like Dean.

Castiel’s eyes flash open. Where the fuc—

 _Ah_.

He’s in the living room. That makes sense. Feeling fuzzy, he swings his legs over the side of the couch and groans. Giving his mouth a feel with his tongue, he wonders if he brushed his teeth with dirty cotton balls because that’s exactly what it feels like.

He swallows against the dryness, hating the dull pain behind his eyes. “Fuck,” he grumbles, his normally deep voice even grittier.

As he sits there in a drunk stupor, he listens for the sounds that woke him. It doesn't take a genius to figure out where the “ _Ohhh ohhh ooh yeah”_ is coming from.

You know, none of this would be so terrible if it wasn't for the fact that he was attracted to his friend. What is he going to do, barge in while Dean is masturbating? He _could_ … He unintentionally has in the past, but doing so seems very assuming and suggestive.

_Hello Dean. Care for some friendly assistance?_

But of course, he would think of a sexier way to phrase it. With a  groan, Castiel rises from the couch and trudges down the hall, noting his shirt and jeans have already been removed. He stops at Dean’s door and bangs on it.

“Dean!!!”

There’s a sharp curse, a bang, Dean hisses and then heavy footsteps thump across the hardwood. The door flies open and Dean is holding a pillow against his naked crotch.

“Sorry,” he ekes out, sporting a fairly remorseless grin.

“Again?!” Cas whines.

“You were wasted drunk, man. I didn't think I’d wake you. And besides… it uh, kinda sounded like you might've been having a little mental porn going on there yourself.” Dean smirks and points to Cas’ forehead.  

Fuck. Fuck times infinity. “Um,” he blunders. Sweat trickles down his chest. “What did you hear?”

“You… _moaning_ .” Dean raises an eyebrow, mocking him with a leer. “Sounds like things were gettin’ pretty hot and heavy up in that noggin of yours. Frankly, I’m a little traumatized. Here I was carrying your stumbly ass into our apartment and you were all o _hhhh_ and _mmnggnhh_. Practically writhing in my arms!”

Hot embarrassment crawls up Castiel’s neck. The only saving grace is that there is no way Dean would be so casual about all this if Cas had said _his_ name. “Yes. That is unfortunate. But, um… that-that was it?”

Dean’s shadowed green eyes go wide. “Yeah… why? Was there more?! What kind of kinky dreams are you having there, buddy?”

“Nothing,” he says, probably too quickly. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed. Headphones, Dean!”

Dean laughs quietly and ducks back into his room and shuts the door. In a few seconds, the sound of gratuitous porn cuts off and Cas crawls into his own unmade bed.

Yes, he is tired. Very tired and if he actually tried to go to sleep he probably could. But knowing Dean is jerking off next door is impossible to ignore.

Guess tonight is masturbation night in the Novak-Winchester apartment.

*     *     *

“You fuckin’ little liar,” Dean mumbles, shaking his head.

He flops back on his bed, eyes fixed to the ceiling and about as wide as quarters. Shock still reaping tremors from his body, sending his mind into the spins. Not from an orgasm, sadly… No, he hadn’t hit climax yet.

Normally, he would’ve been pissed about an interruption like that. This time he’d been hoping for it. Couldn't fucking wait to see how Cas wordsmithed his way out of this douzy.

Honestly, Dean thinks he held it together pretty well during their little convo, considering what Cas did earlier. Essentially bombing their friendship and Dean’s mind in about three seconds flat.

Jesus, he can’t get it out of his head.

There’re a fair number of people who can manage to lie their ass off. Convincingly. Dean, for example, being a case in point. Having studied the subject in high school for numerous reasons. Primarily gambling, but also dealing with his father, and bartering for services.

Everyone has a tell. The majority of the population default to the standard ones. Avoidance of eye contact, stuttering, nervousness, anxiety, etc.

And Cas? Well, Dean’s best friend is a textbook liar. Always has been. It’s why he loses every time they play poker with Sam and Jess.

That fucker knew what he’d done. Or suspected at the very least. Cards on the table though, Dean shouldn’t be one to judge. Seeing as he’d been lying too.

Cause yeah, Cas did _not_ just moan.

No siree. The guy fucking gazed up at Dean with drunken tired eyes, reaching for him… desperately trying to drag Dean on top of him. And sure… he _did_ moan. No denying that. It’s _what_ he moaned that’s now stirring Dean’s grey matter into an incomprehensible mess.

It was this ragged, whiny, desperate curl of his name,“ _Deeaaan.”_ Made all the worse by the subtle strain of his thighs, hips bowing off the couch, jean-clad erection impossible to miss.

 

Not many things have struck Dean stupid in his life, clearing his spitfire brain of total thought. But that one sure as hell did it. Quick as it happened, Cas was already passing out again.

Dean paced around the living room for forty minutes, muttering to himself in what-ifs and what-the-hells until he somehow worked himself into a raging hard-on. The picture of Cas thrusting up into nothing driving him halfway to crazy town.

Then he played the dutiful roommate and pulled off Cas’ clothes as he’s done before when the man is drunk off his ass, many times. In school and after. This particular time was a special shade of hell.  

Needless to say, he immediately came to his room to whack off; a necessity. Get the beast down so he could think with some sense of rationality or logic. Although that was cut short by Cas’ little interruption and now Dean’s back to thinking in non-coherent gibberish.

Fuck. Cas said his name. There's no way that doesn't mean something.

Sure, okay. They were grinding on the dance floor for a bit there. But come on. People get drunk, they flirt with their friends. It’s normal. Especially when you’re single. Maybe it was a fluke?

Dean’s been circling back on this argument every few minutes. Clinging to it really.

People, no matter how much they don’t want to admit it, will at one time or another have a sex dream about their friends. Heck, Charlie told Dean not two months ago she had a dream about the two of them—Dean and Charlie, that is—fucking like bunnies _while_ on a spaceship _while_ simultaneously saving the Empire!

Maybe that’s all it was. A little proximity in the crotchal region for an hour or two, some booze mixed in there and BAM—you have yourself a cocktail for inappropriate dreams.

Dean’s pretty sure that's the case. Nevertheless, he’s going to be keeping his eyes and ears open from now on. If Cas has feelings for him—

Shit.

_What if Cas has feelings for him?!_

They’re best friends. They share a business _and_ an apartment. You don’t just go around fucking with a system like that. At the same time, he cocks his head, flipping back on his own argument, they’re both single and they get along? They get along _so_ fucking well. What if they realize they find each other attractive and want something more?

Jesus he’s going to give himself a tumour.

Dean roughly shakes his head and looks at the computer on his bed. The earlier video ended and is now showing a bunch of “similar” videos. But whoever designed the algorithm is a giant dumbass because Dean had been watching a guy taking this gorgeous busty woman from behind while spanking her ass and now he’s getting pop ups for orgies and… is that… oh gross.

Shutting the laptop with a snap, he rests back against the headboard. The apartment is quiet. With all the windows closed and the heat on, he can almost drown out the blur of Manhattan beyond the glass.

There’s no fucking way he's sleeping tonight, that’s for sure. Fuck it. Time to bust out the Lysol. Dean foregoes the boxers and struts out into the hallway bare-assed, moving past Cas’ room to the hall closet where he keeps his bucket of goods.

Maybe it’s not manly to clean in the middle of the night, but it settles his rampant brain. In high school he used to get in a lot of fights. Unable to curve that _go-go-go_ part of his brain, having it always lead to violence.

In university, he fucked a lot. And drank a lot of coffee and wrote a lot of code.

Now he takes his energy out on the broom.

Or his dick, solo-style, but evidently that won’t happen tonight. His brain is a shade too scrambled to climax with any degree of separation from the whole _Cas-said-my-fucking-name_ thing. What if Dean jerked off and screamed Cas’ name? Then everything would be right fucked up.

Well. Time to sweep.

By five a.m the apartment is spic and span and Dean is exhaustedly crawling into bed. It’s Saturday, he can sleep in. It’s rare for him, but after a night like last night, he needs to shut down for more than an hour and a half.

 


	6. Chapter 6

“You’re pulling my dick, Winchester.”

Dean groans and throws his hands up. “I shit you not… he fucking said my name.”

Meg Masters, reputable tattoo artist and one of Dean and Cas’ closest friends serves him up a stony, disbelieving glare. “Maybe you  _ wanted _ him to say your name,” she teases, leaning over the counter. 

He shakes his head and looks around the shop. Tainted Flesh isn’t the most popular spot, but he loves it. Dark but colourful. Just like Meg. Dark hair, a cunning perpetual leer, and a petite mouth that can say the trashiest things. Plus she’s responsible for nearly all of Dean’s work. Save for the few he got long before he met her.

“Ugh, no. Dammit. I’m not jerking your chain or pulling your dick or whatever the heck you’re gonna come out with next, woman.  My damn best friend fucking moaned my name. What the goddamn hell am I supposed to do?” All at once, he's very aware the shop is jam-packed with customers. He turns and jabs his finger in the air, pointing at all of them in one singular gesture and calls out, “Stop eavesdropping all you drama-thirsty Manhattanites!”

Meg throws her head back and beckons Dean to follow her into the back. In her cramped disorganized office, Dean takes up a lean against the dented metal filing cabinet while Meg hops her butt up onto the desk. 

“What do I do?”

She shrugs, “Why the hell are you askin’ me?”

Fuck, he doesn't even know. “Beats the shit outta me. But I gotta ask someone. Your name popped into my head and here I am.”

She sighs, impatient. “It’s Saturday afternoon, Dean… You came during our busiest time to whine about your boyfriend. I don’t have time for your—”

He groans, cutting her off, “Cas is  _ not _ my boyfriend.”

Unfazed, she perks a brow at him. “You live together and he's moaning your name when he sleeps… sounds pretty boyfriend-y to me.”

Yeah, he has no damn clue why he came to Meg. But by God he is not leaving this frigging tattoo shop without advice. Might as well pander to the masses. “Useless,” he tells her, tone lighthearted. As he's leaving her office, he says, “By the way, Cas wants to do his ankle piece soon… Not a word to him about this!”

She smirks, mischievous as all hell. Shit. He knew coming here was probably a ripe bad idea. 

Whatever, down the tattooed rabbit hole now. 

Back in the main area, where the sound of buzzing tattoo guns fills the space like a hundred beehives just broke out, Dean raises his voice over the noise, “Fellow New Yorkers: My best friend moaned my name in his sleep—shout your advice now!”

A mangled chorus of daytime talk show worthy suggestions burst out towards him. Some tell him to fuck his buddy, others hollar useless exclamations, and a rare individual blabbers a pointless long-winded Dr. Phil sounding something or other. Dean tunes it out. 

One burly type, more ink than skin perks an eyebrow and asks if either of them are even gay—which, the man explains—kinda changes the direction of advice don’t it. 

Dean rolls his eyes and throws up his hands. None of this helps him whatsoever. “This is so not helping,” he mutters to himself. 

A few more advice-stragglers call out senseless input he’d already thought of. None of what this crowd has said is epiphany-generating advice.  To be fair, he’s smarter than everyone in the room. It’s not a cocky statement, it’s fact. 

On his way out the door, he’s stopped by one hell of a stunning older woman. Tattooed, short hair… looks like she could throw him on his ass if she wanted. She takes him by the elbow, meets his eyes dead-on and asks the one question he hadn't thought of so far: 

“Question is… Do you  _ like _ him?”

 

Hours later, the question festers in the back of his genius-level brain. One trait at a time, in Dean’s neurotically methodic way of doing things, he runs through everything he knows about Cas and thinks: Do I like this? Do I like that?

Cas is creative, and fuck yeah Dean definitely likes that. Has reaped the benefits of the man’s skill with a pen many times over, the evidence plainly displayed on his skin. His best friend is also inquisitive as all hell, and being the energy soaked intelligent nerd he is, Dean not just enjoys Cas’ inquisitive nature, he stokes it whenever he can. 

At MIT, they weren’t just roommates sharing space, they challenged each other as often as they could. Constantly poking and prodding at the other’s intellectual boundaries. Endless memories of late nights facing off in a heated discussion about everything from global warming to coding techniques to Mac versus PC. 

Nothing is clearer in Dean’s mind than the piercing blue of Cas’ eyes when the man is fired up on a topic. At first glance, his buddy can come off as downright unassuming. But damn, in those moments? Cas, all lean muscles rock hard with adrenaline and his voice hard and rough, becoming this undeniable penetrating authority on whatever they’d been discussing. 

Suffice to say, Dean doesn’t often succumb to the intellectual opinions of others, but Cas had a way of just… bulldozing over his sputtering retorts. 

Everything about Cas is so unique and interesting, a personality Dean has come to learn and respect. 

About an hour into his internal discussion of pros and cons, Dean decides it’s a painstaking exercise. He’s not even sure it’s the most accurate way of measuring emotion, because… how the hell would he even know? 

It doesn't seem to matter anyway because Cas is his best friend, and so yeah, he kinda does like all of the guy’s traits. Minus the utter and total disregard for being clean or neat. That definitely irks him.

But no one is perfect. Besides, there's something,  _ hmmm _ , endearing about a messy bed and clothes strewn about the floor? Okay, maybe not  _ endearing  _ exactly but cute like the way a wet cat is cute. In a sort of  _ awww _ look at that pathetic mess and  _ no _ I don’t want to touch it kind of way. 

For a fleeting moment, Dean pictures his best friend as a wet cat and snorts to himself. It seems oddly fitting.

Back at the apartment, Dean stands in front of the open fridge, disregarding the outpouring of cool air to narrow his gaze on the now almost stranger sitting on his couch. 

Cas is still hungover, hair wildly in disarray, channel surfing with a glassy-eyed kind of look. Dean is cleaning the kitchen, in fits and starts, because he keeps getting distracted. He’s managed to empty out the moldy experiments of old take-out from the fridge, cleaned the shelves, and gotten a start on de-greasing the stove. 

But he can’t seem to remember what he’s doing five seconds after he starts. 

There’s this intangible presence in the air. A stain in their apartment he can't clean no matter how much bleach and scrubby sponges he’s got. This particular stain is the moment Cas said his fucking name. Moaned it, actually. While sporting an erection, might he add. 

This annoying metaphorical spilled wine spurring on Dean’s level one freak out—alert status red, brooding in hysterics about whether or not he likes his best friend.  

Last night’s reaction boner certainly implies he finds his buddy attractive, but that’s not exactly a new thing. Besides, attraction is moot. Dean’s been attracted to a cartoon before—it’s hardly a reliable piece of evidence. 

Every once in a while, when Cas does yoga by the window in those tight little gym shorts, limbs and back twisting and warping into beautiful presentations of the male form—exquisitely designed tattoos being showcased in the early morning light—Dean has to fight a certain response. 

Thankfully, he’s not having that response now. But he  _ is _ staring. A lot. 

All at once a hard unstoppable force of sobriety hits him like a bag of cement. The full weight of the gravity of this situation pulling his spine straight. 

Dean walks over to the couch and peers down at his roommate. There’s a thick lump in his throat. 

It doesn’t take long for Cas to feel his creeping presence. The man tips his chin up, leaning his head back against the couch. 

“What’s up?”

Dean smiles, feels his heart lurch forward. “Nothing, just uh… wondering what you want for dinner.”

They know each other too well. Castiel’s crystal blue eyes narrow into slits. There’s a weighted pause hovering between them. “Something’s different…” Cas murmurs, barely meeting Dean’s eyes. 

It’s the strangest thing, this singular moment. As if they both know something has changed but neither has the balls to say it outright or even blink suggestively in that direction. They just let it hang, pretending there’s not internal freakouts just flying about the apartment like hyper-charged dust motes or fucking confetti.

Choking down unwanted panic, Dean ruffles Cas’ hair. “Don’t worry about it. What do you want for dinner?”

His roommate closes his eyes to the touch. “Whatever you want works for me.”

Shit. Is there a double-meaning there? They're both pretty damn smart. They could dance this game a long while. Tiptoeing in suggestive language, if that’s what this is. He’s not sure. Dean hates complicated crap and Cas has the social cues of a rabbit sometimes. But maybe it is… this potentially cryptic back and forth. Maybe they’ll hide under the safety of its uncertainty and clouded air of disassociation. For a bit anyway. Dean’s not ready to figure this out. It feels too much like giving in to the raging constant need inside him. It wouldn't do any good to reach out and grab the closest male in proximity. Let alone one who happens to be his best fucking friend,  _ and _ his roommate,  _ AND  _ his business partner. 

“I haven’t decided on anything,” he says. There. Take that double meaning and smoke it.  

The faintest smile passes through Cas’ expression. But is it suggestive or normal; he doesn’t know. “We could order out,” suggests Cas. “I’m  _ starving _ .” 

Order out? Starving? Are they still playing? Maybe they never were. Maybe Dean’s overactive brain is detouring from reality. Watching an hour or more of porn every day probably isn’t helping matters. 

“Uh, pizza?”

Cas moans. “ _ Yessss _ . Definitely pizza.”

Last night comes flashing back to him. “Damn, you’re busting out those moans for pizza? Maybe you were dreaming about a slice of Denino’s last night.”

_Yeah right_. Dean just barely holds back a snort. A fucking extra-large slice of the Best Friend Special. 

“Perhaps I was,” Cas replies. No hesitation. Just a little of that trademark Novak sass. 

“Uhn-huh,” Dean blandly fires back, not even trying to hide his bullshit tone. 

Dean’s life is supposed to be uncomplicated, dammit. Now he’s conversing in vague subtleties and possible innuendos. 

Fuck. 

Why did his best friend have to dream-moan his name like that? It’s like a box Dean never knew he owned just exploded all over the floor in some catastrophic sticky mess. One singular event turning his orderly life into shambles. 

An abrupt urge to scrub the fuck out of the shower tiles gnaws at him. 

His fingers twitch by his sides and he cringes at the suffocating energy trapped inside him. Needing to be expelled in whatever way is most efficient. Energy generated from a simple, pathetic outpouring of useless cerebral exercises all centred around emotion and hyperbole of speculative scenarios all based on  _ one _ potentially meaningless expulsion of his name in a dream that  _ could’ve _ been pornagraphic. 

Jesus Christ! 

Or hell, for all Dean knows… maybe Cas was being tortured and the moaning of his name wasn’t related to sex at all! 

Maybe Dean has severely warped what happened because he’s been walking around with a filter of sex over everything for weeks. Maybe months? However long it’s been since he could no longer get it up for strangers. 

It’s a sad fact, yes, but the statistics regarding STD contraction-rate in this country are not to be taken lightly, thank you very much. Dean prefers his dick disease-free.

But… then again, he remembers, Cas had been rocking some serious wood. So unless Cas is prone to fear-boners, Dean’s pretty damn certain the dream was a sexy one. Besides, it’s not like Cas denied the style of dream during their little midnight chat at the threshold of Dean’s bedroom door.

The facts remain: Cas moaned his name, was tenting his damn jeans,  _ and _ tried to drag Dean into a compromising position and if he’d had less balance that night (maybe a few extra drinks at the bar), he might’ve even  _ felt _ said boner for himself.  

It kills him that a small part of his brain wishes he’d let Cas drag him onto the couch. God only knows what would’ve happened then. 

Jesus. This is a mess. 

Pacing the stretch of floor between the back of the couch and the kitchen island, Dean orders from the regular spot. Not long after, they're seated on the couch together mowing down slice after slice. Not a word between them. Reruns of Dexter playing on the TV. 

In a peculiar, slightly worrisome way, Dean relates to the psychopath serial killer. The man is methodically ridding the world of far worse demons and monsters than himself—what’s not to like?

Sadly, inane TV drama can’t hold his attention and he finds his gaze being averted from the screen to flicker over at Cas, just a couple times at first… and then a few more lingering glances. He clears his throat and stuffs his face with another bite of greasy, heart-stopping carbs. 

After a while, Dean can’t take the uncertainty. He's too goddamn methodic. 

You have a problem. You fix the problem. Something is messy… you clean it. Something is broken… you glue it back together. 

All that black and white logic is why he’s steered clear of relationships before. Nothing about relationships is logical or black and white. It’s all just messy… like Cas’ bedroom. 

But in this case, he’s already living with messy and he refuses to have a messy friendship with Cas. Meaning it’s time to use his big boy words and confront his best friend. 

“Yeeaaah,” he edges out slowly, swallowing the bite of pizza in his mouth with a thick gulp. “So, uh,” he pauses, darts his eyes away from his buddy. Fuck. How does a guy bust out such a question?  _ Uh, gee Cas, best buddy pal, how come you were moaning my name last night and trying to pull me down on top of your booze-infused thrusty athletic hips?  _

Lifting a brow, Cas gives Dean a quizzical stare. “Yes?”

He lets out a groan, shakes his head of the dumbass conversation in his brain. “Okay here we go. One, you  _ suck  _ at lying by the way. I mean, God Cas. And  _ two _ , you did  _ not _ just moan last night.”

Cas’ eyes flare wide, all the blue looking sharp and stunned. “Um… I-I didn’t? What else… what did….”

Before Cas stutters himself into a goddamn headache, Dean rolls his eyes and spits out, “You fucking moaned my name, dude. I'm talking like total porn voice. Husky and throaty and all  _ Deaaaann.” _ As he stops for a second, he looks over his best friend and sees a perfect representation of  _ OH SHIT _ displayed across his broad, expressive features. “Uh, so yeah… mind tellin’ me what the hell that was all about?” 

Blue eyes bulging in horror, Cas opts for denial through innocence. “What are you… what are you talking about?”

_ Please _ . Dean makes a pfft noise. “Genius.” He points to his head theatrically.

“So humble,” mutters Cas.

“Whatever. Don’t play dumb.” Dean gives his friend’s thigh a nudge with his big toe. “Last night… all drunk and tight in the crotch… you said my name. Fucking  _ moaned _ my name. Care to explain?”

Cas looks terrified. It’s actually quite hilarious but Dean’s not ready to laugh. “Um… about that…”

“I’m listening.”

“I, um, had a dream…”

“I’m guessing not like the way Martin Luther King had a dream.”

Cas laughs, instantly lightening the moment, some of the awkwardness slicing away. “No,” he says, smiling. “Not quite.”

“Okaaaaay,” Dean guides the conversation, “so… you had a sexy dream about me? I mean… I am a pretty awesome guy so it’s not a total shocker. ‘Course I could use some anti-aging cream I think. I’ve been getting these frigging lines—You know what, I’m getting off track here. All I need to know is this: Was the sexy dream a one off sort of thing or is there like… something else going on here?” With the question hanging in the air, Dean gestures between them. 

And he waits. Annnnd waits.  

Every second feels endless, eternal. Terrifying. Like he’s dangling at the edge of a cliff like some adrenaline junkie moron. He wonders why he’s hanging onto the nearly about-to-pass moment with such anxiety when it occurs to him. Like a goddamn slap to the psyche. 

Somewhere, in the depths of his brain or soul or whatever the fuck, he wants Cas to say there’s something else, something more going on. 

Huh. Definitely a left-field notion there. 

The question is—Does Dean want there to be more because he’s lonely and it’s nice to be wanted and Cas is like  _ always there _ and so painfully convenient for a man living off porn. Or, is it because he legitimately  _ wants Cas. _

This, he doesn't know. And is really goddamn afraid to figure out. 


	7. Chapter 7

Fuck. What on earth is Castiel supposed to say? 

Blunder through an uncertain truth about abstract feelings or admit to the less-damaging aspect of sexual attraction. Yes, he decides. Definitely the latter. 

Quickly, he throws Dean a smile. “No need to panic,” he assures. “The dream was nothing more than a drunken erotic detour of my brain.”

Dean’s brows pinch together, not entirely believing him. Or not wanting to… Cas can’t be certain. “And your drunk brain decided to get jiggy with me?” wonders Dean. 

“Apparently.”

“Huh.”

Castiel watches the thoughts whip through Dean’s mind. Calculations about the probability of him lying. No doubt running through facts about being plastered and whatever correlation this has to displays of honesty. 

“Would you like specifics?” he teases. 

Dean shakes his head. “Uh, no. No it’s fine.”

In awkward silence, they turn back to the TV and ignore the new strange reality sitting between them. A reality where Castiel has thought of Dean in a way other than friends. An entire episode of Dexter plays through as they sit in stiff lines on the couch, leftover slices of pizza left to cool on the coffee table. 

This alone is a clear enough sign Dean is heavy into over-thinking. Normally, leaving food out warrants lectures about bacteria and fruit flies. And yet, there the pizza sits. 

Castiel shifts on the couch, spreading his knees and scooting his backside closer to the edge so he can lean back. As he resettles, he feels Dean’s eyes burning holes into the side of his head. 

With an irritated huff, he turns to his friend. “What?”

“Was there fucking?”

He snorts a laugh. “In my dream?”

“Obviously.”

“Actually… there was not. If you must know, you were—“

“—Don’t need specifics,” Dean maintains, hands up. “Just, ya know, wondering how far things got.”

Cas fights back a smile. Dean isn’t just worried about whether Cas has feelings, Dean’s thinking about  _ what _ they did. Even though the actions themselves hold zero weight; nothing had been real. 

“Does it matter?” he challenges. “It was only a dream, after all.” Finding the unsettled vibe coming from Dean rather intriguing, Castiel licks his lips and watches his friend search for a reply. 

“No, ‘course not. But shit, Cas… it’s like you fired a live grenade into my head. You had a sex dream about me. I fucking can't think of anything else.”

For someone so meticulous and adverse to relationships, Dean can be overly dramatic. “You’re telling me you’ve never, not once, thought about me in any sexual way… ever? I mean, you may not be gay, but you are into men. On occasion. Usually after an infusion of alcohol.” 

Dean shuffles back into the corner of the couch, his legs splayed out—one on the ground and the other resting against the back of the couch. He shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t think so… definitely not in specifics.”

Feeling bold and strangely high, Cas laughs loudly and says, “Bet you will now,” essentially goading Dean.  

With those words hanging to the air, Castiel pushes out of his seat and moves confidently back down the hall to his bedroom. 

Leaning against the door, Cas bites his lip. His heart is pounding. He almost can’t believe he just dropped the bait like that. What had he been thinking? He knows, with one hundred percent certainty, what he said will linger with Dean. The man can’t slow his thoughts for anything short of being unconscious. 

Fuck it. 

Castiel  _ wants _ Dean to think about it, he  _ wants _ Dean to picture them together. To imagine how their bodies would align, how damp and warm their skin might feel. For years, Cas has fantasized about his best friend, knowing…  _ assuming _ it would never go beyond a daydream. A random thought here and there when he’s horny and no one else stacks up. 

Castiel had first thought his traitorous dream to be a mortifying hiccup to their friendship but what if it trips into something else completely? 

What if it gets them thinking, the wheels turning... 

They’re both single. Neither of them have ever had luck in relationships. Although, in all fairness, neither of them have really ever tried either. Cas pretends to, once in a while. But it’s only ever amounted to 3D distractions that never last more than a couple months. 

Every man he's ever been with has done or said something to rub Castiel the wrong way. It makes sense given his nature. He doesn’t trust easily. Both his parents had been religious psychopaths who had zero qualms over disowning him once they knew he was gay. When your own parents, who are supposed to love you unconditionally over anyone else, can manage to turn their backs... cut him out… say vile things—

—Anyway, It’s no wonder Castiel is reticent to believe human nature is basically good, at it’s core. 

Only Dean has ever managed to fully obtain Cas’ trust. They were forced to live together in first year university and it didn’t take more than a week to see how honest and caring Dean was. Slightly offbeat, yes, but in all the good ways a creative man is able to appreciate. 

Does he have true feelings for Dean? Yes, there’s something there. Unquestionably. But his current interests are far more about gratification. Picturing Dean sitting out there on the couch, his brilliant mind trapped in whirlwind of sexual images. 

_ Mmngh _ , fuck. 

It’s not late yet and he has no idea what he should do at the moment. Even now, he’s not sure he’d be calm enough to write. 

Pieces of last night’s dream linger in the back of his mind. Specifically of Dean laid out on the counter, Castiel’s fingers trailing over his bare skin. Watching the man’s breath catch in his chest. 

There’s something about Dean. His bold and abrasive outer personality and how it clashes with the quieter nature Cas has only ever seen a handful of times. Noticeable in those innocuous moments no one seems to pick up on, but Cas does. The way Dean cringes a little when someone outside of his immediate circle hugs him unexpectedly, his lips going flat as if he’s bracing himself through it. But there are other moments when it’s obvious he wants to express himself but can’t get the words out. He’ll grasp your shoulder or run a hand along your back. 

It didn’t take long for Cas to understand how deep the simple gesture went. How much it meant for Dean. 

It’s all of these little things, the part of Dean no one else sees, that formed the basis of Cas’ feelings.  This hidden nature of Dean. A less cocky version of his friend that pulls at his emotions. Makes him want to pick Dean up and wrap him in a strong embrace. 

But Castiel can’t think about his feelings for Dean. Sex is allowed. Sex is easy. Emotions, however, are off limits because Dean is not a man out to find happily ever after. He likes quick climax and zero complications. 

Fuck. It would be something else to give that to Dean though. To be the person his best friend goes to in search of release. 

Cas’ view of the world is that nothing is static. There’s always room for creativity, even in relationships. As long as both parties are open and honest, why can’t they shift outside the boundaries of normal friendship? 

No more being woken by porn through the wall, but maybe… he goes one door over and gets Dean off himself. 

There are risks. No doubt about that. But the rewards are almost guaranteed. 


	8. Chapter 8

As of midnight, Dean has spent more hours in the day thinking of his best friend in various shades of naked and aroused than he has anything else.

It’s a goddamn distraction.

One that resulted in ruined leftover pizza because despite what everyone seems to think, pizza left out overnight is not “The Best Ever.” It is teeming with germs and is thoroughly disgusting.

But he wouldn’t have ruined pizza if it wasn’t for Cas’ “ _Bet you will now,”_ comment. Fucking asshole knew exactly what he was doing when he’d gone and said that.

You _will_ think of this, Dean.

Surprise, surprise. He's thinking. It’s all he ever fucking does from sunup to sundown. Normally he directs his focus into something far more lucrative. Like mocking up a new website for a paying client or a new app he can charge a couple bucks for. Dean hardly does anything without clear logic backing him up.

It’s why he limits his alcohol nowadays. It’s why he built his own career and why he even chose MIT in the first place. Logic.

But thinking of Cas in any remotely sexual context has no sound logic other than Dean can't fucking stop. It doesn’t help that he's been horny and annoyingly disinterested in going out to find some random sex partner.

Porn is nowhere near up to snuff now. Not with Cas all dreaming about the two of them. Dicks out and tongues doing unspeakable things. Best friends… sharing fluids. Sweat and spit and come. Good god.

“Fuck!” Dean grunts to his empty room.

He came and sat on his bed after he trashed the pizza with all intentions of jacking off to a playlist of his favourite clips on Pornhub but as soon as he hit play, he looked down and realized, yeah… this isn’t happening. Kind of hard to rub one out when the cock isn’t stepping up to bat.

Dimly, he can make out the whirr of traffic beyond his window. The occasional muted bleep of a horn. Once more, he can’t sleep and unlike yesterday, getting up to clean just doesn’t have the same appeal as it normally does.

It’s the curiosity, he realizes. Steadily eating away at him.

Is his best friend really as flexible as he looks? How _exactly_ would he taste? These questions are impossible not to think of. When all you want to do is stop thinking of something, it’s the surest way to make sure you don’t.

Like when someone says they smell something bad and even though it’s utterly ridiculous, you smell the fucking smell even if you know you shouldn’t want to.  Or when a shop owner says, “Yes, that sword is very sharp,” and Dean being the oddball dork he is has to run his finger along the edge to be sure that, yes, judging by the trickle of blood running down his finger, the sword is indeed sharp.

Okay, so cards on the table here… what if they had sex? What if Dean satisfied his curiosity with a little horizontal tango business.

Really, what’s the _worst_ that could happen?

Dean’s not about to go and have feelings for someone. Feelings are so… eeehk. They’re like raw chicken juice left on the counter. Sticky, smells after a while, hard to clean up.

Yeah, none of that happening here.

Besides, they’ve gone eight years without getting mixed up in that regard. A little sex ain’t gonna change that. They’re both adults, they know just because you’re putting your cock into somebody it’s not a declaration of anything more than wanting to get off.

How has he never devoted thought to this before? To the startling, intriguing idea of Cas and him having sex. Shit, he goes to Cas for everything else in his life. No matter how insignificant his day has been, he tells Cas every damn word about it. They eat together, they work together… they fucking do groceries together.

And yet… Dean has never sat down and been like, hmm. I wonder what his dick feels like. Do best friends at any point ever think this? Is it normal?

Surely it has to be normal. You don’t spend hours and hours with someone for years on end and not eventually think of them in some sexual capacity. Cas simply beat him to it. That’s all this is. And now, here they are, sharing an apartment.

Maybe a few fantasies too?

Perhaps both of them at this very moment are imaging the other in some sexual capacity. No matter how many times Dean tries to shape the fantasy that unfolds in his mind, he always falls back to the same image.

Cas, quiet and watchful as he is, grabbing Dean by the back of the neck and bending him right over their couch. Making his brain stutter to a full stop. Fingering him hard and fast until he's a goddamn mess, begging for Cas’ cock.

Jesus fuck. In all his life he’s never begged for anything. Nor been fingered for that matter! But each time he pictures it, his cock throbs so hard it hurts.

 

At some point in the night, Dean must’ve fantasized himself into a coma because the next thing he knows, he’s jerking awake to his 10:13 Sunday alarm. With a curse, he punches the nightstand out of irritation for being woken up.

Too aggrieved by technology to function properly, he briefly forgets last night’s ordeal and stumbles out into the hall without a stitch on.

As he’s taking a piss and staring at the same painting above the toilet as he does every day, it abruptly occurs to him he should start putting more clothes on. All these sex thoughts flying around the apartment aren’t gonna disappear with naked men walking around.

Shit, maybe he brought this on himself? Daily nakedness and grinding at the bar?

Wiping the sleep from his face, Dean trudges into the kitchen and runs the coffee pot. He stares into the living room and through the window, zoning out until the machine gurgles and spits the last few drops. On autopilot, Dean pours a cup into one of Cas’ favourite mugs and starts walking back down the hall.

He stops at his door, wondering if he should duck back in and throw on some underwear. But then he thinks: _fuck it_. Cas has seen his naked ass every goddamn day for the last eight years, he’s not about to be uncomfortable in his own home just because best friends have imaginative brains.

In Cas’ room, he sees his best friend face-first on the bed. It shows how chaotic of a sleep the guy had for him to be in this position. Dean places the mug of coffee on his nightstand to ensure no possibility of spillage and reaches out.

He taps Cas on the shoulder. _Nothing_.

“Yo. Sunshine.”

Cas grumbles, pushes his arms under his pillow and then as if he’d been smacked, goes utterly still. No doubt last night is storming back into his brain now too.

An interesting and fun wake up call for both of them.

It looks like it takes monumental effort, but Castiel eventually huffs and puffs into a sitting position. He spares a look at the mug before turning his eyes to Dean.

“You seem edgy.”

Dean snorts. _Obviously_ he's edgy. He spent the whole night metaphorically being finger-fucked by Cas. It’s a wonder he isn’t standing there with a raging hard-on. “Gee, ya think.”

A tease of a smile flinches across Cas’ mouth. “Up all night thinking, were you?”

“You knew exactly what you were doing, _buddy_. Yes… I was.”

Cas crosses his arms over his chest, the contrast between his inked sleeve and bare skin enticing in a way it’s never been before. “I was only teasing,” his friend says. “I wasn’t actually sure you’d think about it… about us. Like that.”

“How could I not?! It’s like saying _oh don’t think about pancakes._ You fucking know you’re gonna go and think about pancakes. Psychology 101, man. Active thought suppression will only make sure the thought becomes a stubborn little bitch.”

With an amused laugh, Castiel shrugs. “Is this your way of telling me you’re making pancakes for breakfast?”

Fuuuck. “No! I mean, yes… I can make pancakes. Do you want pancakes?” he asks angrily.

Cas smiles and reaches down to adjust his boxers, catching Dean’s eyes with the movement. “Yes I would love some pancakes.”

Confused and rattled, Dean blows out an exhale through his nose and shakes his head. “Alright. Pancakes…”

 

Wearing boxers and PJ pants, Dean is in the kitchen a half hour later mixing pancake batter. He’s about ready to toss in the chocolate chips when Castiel emerges from the hall, looking sleep-mussed and undeniably gorgeous.

Dean always knew Cas was just fine to look at. Better than fine. Goddamn exquisite. But now Dean looks and he can’t seem to process simple math. Today, it seems, the square root of eight-forty-seven divided by the first set of prime numbers is _Wow, Cas is fucking mouthwatering._

Sporting a mad case of bedhead and those tight little yoga shorts, Dean can’t help but stare and stare and stare. Seeing the same person differently than he has the millions of days that have come before this one.

It makes his brain feel stunted and he wonders if this is what it’s like to be average.

Instead of going off to start yoga over by the window like he normally does while Dean cooks on Sunday mornings, Castiel takes a seat at the counter separating the kitchen from the living room.

“No yoga?” he asks.

Cas reaches into the chocolate chip bag and snags a handful. “Not just yet.”

“What are you gonna do then? Watch me cook?”

With a sly grin, Cas answers, “Yup.”

“Ugh,” Dean shakes a spatula at him. “You’re being weird. Speak up buddy cause we’ve been dancing through this weird fog since last night and you know I don’t like complications.”

Cas hums as he thinks, eyes avoiding Dean. “When was the last time you had sex?”

Uhhh. Dean forgets about the butter he just dropped into the pan. Okay. They were going there, were they? “You being serious right now?”

With an indifferent shrug, Cas looks up at him through his lashes. “When?” he presses.

“Fuck,” Dean curses, hearing the sizzle behind him. Dean jerks the melted butter around in the pan with unnecessary vigour. “I don’t know. Few months maybe.”

“No wonder you’ve been bingewatcing porn like it’s Netflix,” says Cas.

And god, what is with Cas harping on the porn. A man can like a good skin flick. Can like it every goddamn night if he wants. “Listen, you know I’m not big on the random hook-ups anymore so yeah… if I want to stream constant orgies twenty-four-seven, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

“Or,” Cas throws out, his tone taking on a very distinct note, intriguing in such a way it pulls Dean’s attention around.

Pegging Cas with blatant suspicion, he asks, “Or what?”

Dean’s friend leans back, wets his thick lips. Stares. “Or… _we_ could have sex.”


	9. Chapter 9

Dean stares at his roommate. “You can’t be serious.”

There’s an unmistakeable boldness to Cas he always knew was there but never really saw come out in full force. It sure as hell is now. 

“I am. You’re curious… I can see it.”

“Intelligent men are always curious,” Dean throws back. 

Cocking his head, Castiel gives Dean a grin and pops another handful of chocolate chips into his mouth. “You’re burning the butter.”

The smell hits him, sharp and acrid. “Fuck!” Dean turns back to the pan and sees the formerly light yellow liquid is now smoking and black. He dumps the sizzling pan into the sink where it hisses and pops and he turns around to fire a look in his best friend’s direction. “You want to have sex? With me?” he stammers.

“I think,” Cas starts off, “we are both horrible at and-slash-or are disinterested in having any kind of relationship with someone. But that doesn’t mean we don’t want sex. We simply don’t want sex with people we don’t know or trust. Myself especially.”

“I know,” Dean agrees. “You usually go on several dates with a guy before you let him into your pants.” The again, who the hell is Dean to talk? Given his hodge podge of sexual experience with men. 

Ignoring Dean’s interruption, Cas continues, “The other night, when we were at the club. You were dancing with me and I admit… I became somewhat… aroused. Probably why I dreamt what I did. But a certain thought has crossed my mind since.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What thought exactly?”

“How nice it would be to use each other to get off. No muss no fuss.”

It’s impossible not to laugh. “What is this? The setup to some chick flick plot? Don’t be ridiculous.” As much as Dean  _ is _ curious, they’re best friends. There’s a reason people tell you not to fuck your friends. It can make things complicated even when you don’t want it to be. 

Dean  _ does not _ do complicated. Or messy. 

Cas leans back and twists his lips. “I’m not. I know you’re not a fan of relationships. Which is just as well. Sex is the only thing I’m offering.” 

With that, Cas stands and walks over to the yoga mat in front of the window, hits play on the stereo left permanently on the sill and starts shifting into pose after pose. Slow Nirvana songs trickle out into the apartment. Dean watches for nearly a minute, in a trance. Unblinking eyes studying every lean line and twist of artistic ink. 

Certain reactions build up in him. A tingle of heat pressing down into him, rooting itself. Thoughts peter out into his brain, seemingly innocuous tendrils of thoughts.  _ Just sex,  _ voices are saying. And he imagines it, coming home and being able to get off with a little bro-job. 

Fuck. The temptation is intoxicating. Trust is already there. Neither of them have far to go for it; unless ‘down the hall’ is considered an adventurous trek. Plus, Cas is right, they suck at relationships because neither of them care for the annoyance of one. 

Casual fucking is kind of… not a totally horrible idea. Really. 

When the pancakes are done and piled high on a plate nearly a half hour later, Dean sets everything out on the counter and waits patiently for Cas to be done. His buddy finally rises from the floor, looking dopey and clear-headed at the same time. As he always does after yoga. 

Dean wonders how he’d look after an orgasm. It’s one expression Dean’s never seen on his friend. Though they’ve lived together, shared a room even in school… he’s never seen the man’s face blown in ecstasy. Has heard his telltale deep grunts and choked gasps through the wall a time or two, but nothing more than that.  

Now it’s all he can do not to outright ask whether Cas closes his eyes or keeps them open during climax. 

As they eat breakfast on either side of the counter, taking warm syrupy bites of pancake and diligently not speaking about the unspeakable offering on the table of the non-food variety, Dean fires through another logical analysis in his mind. 

Now the seed is planted, there’s no stopping it. He will think this thing to death. The result? They’ll be fucking or they won’t. End of. 

Alright, Dean takes a bite of pancake. Chews slowly, swallows. Let’s tear this idea apart. For starters, people experience casual sex every day. Usually between men and women. Men and women are genetically predisposed to want commitment and attachment, archaic genetic code driving them to copulate. Bla-bla-bla. 

It’s probably the same nagging prickle Dean’s had in the back of his mind. But he doesn’t want to settle down, never has. All he’s feeling is a reflex. Nothing that will manifest with Cas because there’s no ingrained species instinct for him to bond on that level. Or breed, as the genetic code may denote. 

They’re both intelligent, capable of making rational decisions and avoiding complications. To them, sex could really be just sex. It could. And damn, how awesome it would be. Totally awesome. 

Dean shovels the last bite into his mouth, chews it fast and swallows. “Just sex, huh?”

Slowly, Cas licks a dribble of maple syrup from his lips. Dean’s cock twitches.  

“Just sex,” his roommate confirms. All chill and reeking of  _ whatever _ attitude. 

How on earth is everyone else on the planet just, like, calm and cool all the fucking time. Don’t they  _ think _ ? Fast and hard and never-ending until someone knocks them out or they fall asleep or they’re achingly convulsing through an orgasm. Because, for Dean, those are the only times his brainwaves set to flat-line. 

Back to the debate at hand. This can’t seriously be happening. “So what then?” Dean jokes. “Like… right now?”

But the joke falls flat, hits hard as a truth. Hilarity on his part being catapulted into a fucking proposition. Jesus. Christ.

The entire apartment seems to grind to a halt, as if the air ducts have cut off to make the moment stick out. 

Cas puts his fork down and sits straight. “If you want.”

“You’re joking.” Dean makes a face and grabs his plate, bringing it to the sink. “You’ve  _ got _ to be joking,” Dean rambles, “because there’s no way my best friend… a man who waits several dates to get some action may I remind you… is actually suggesting we start fucking for funsies right this very second.”

No way. This is not happening. Nuh-uhn.

Shaking his head, Dean rinses and cleans his plate before placing it on the drying rack. When he turns around, Cas is  _ right _ there. Inches away. Man, that guy has a serious lack of personal boundaries sometimes.

Dean’s breath is sucked in and he watches Cas place the dirty dish on the counter to his right. No one moves to clean it. Not even himself, Mr. Cleans Everything. 

“Aren’t you going to take care of that?” Cas wonders, taunting. “Because there’s no way  _ my _ best friend would dare leave a dirty dish on the counter.”

On autopilot, Dean nervously turns his back to Castiel, swallowing when his friend is out of sight, and grabs for the plate. He  _ should _ care that it’s not even his to clean but his brain can’t think of anything but the way Cas is crowding in behind him. The heat of his body flaring against Dean like a bonfire. 

What. Is. Happening. 

_ Holy. Shiiiiiiiit.  _

“Right now?” asks Cas, his voice low and seductive. 

Fuck. If Dean wasn’t hard before he sure as hell is now. Determined to avoid sounding eager, he shrugs. “Up to you. I damn well ain’t gonna be the one to start this.” 

“Allow me then,” Cas answers. Before Dean can wonder about his next move, his friend’s hands are reaching around and untying the drawstring on Dean’s pajama pants. 

“Holy fuck,” he blurts. Thoughts spinning out of control from the simple sensation of a loosened waistband.

Frozen in place, he grips the wet dish in one hand and the scrubbing brush in the other as Cas tugs his plaid sleep bottoms over his ass and down his thighs. His breath rips past his lips. As soon as the fabric settles around Dean’s ankles, Castiel dives right in and palms the obvious bulge in the front of his boxer-briefs. 

“Oh, you’re not kidding,” he pants, dizzy from the heat of Cas’ grip burning through him. Christ, he’s so suddenly aroused he can’t see straight. 

Cas squeezes Dean’s cock and says, “No... I’m not.”

“Fuck, fuck. Oh-okay…”

Well, he swallows, this dish is fucking clean. Dean drops it carelessly into the sink and plants his wet soapy hands on the edge of the counter and holds on. 

Heart-pounding, his nerves are on fire as Cas deftly strokes his barely covered erection. It doesn’t take long before Dean’s subtly jerking his hips into the heat of his friends’ hand, needing more. 

One self-served orgasm every day is  _ nothing _ compared to another’s touch. God, not even close.

“What do you want?” Castiel asks, his hand reaching down to cup Dean’s balls.

Dean automatically spreads his legs, lets his head fall back. “Jerk me off…” he whispers, voice ragged and strained. “Like this… here.”

He can practically hear his friend smile at his back. “It has been a long time, hasn’t it,” Castiel teases, rubbing over Dean’s erection, teasing a circle with his thumb at the tip.  

With a grunt, Dean looks over his shoulder. “You gonna finish what you started or be a cocktease I’m gonna have to complain to my best friend about later.”

Cas glares back at him, bites his thick bottom lip and squeezes around Dean so tight his entire body doubles forward and he chokes out a gasp. If he ever doubted Cas’ skills in the sack given his lack of lovers over the years, he sure as hell doesn’t now. It’s clear the man knows how to dance the line between rough and just fucking right. 

Breathing hard over the sink, Dean leans on his elbows and shifts his hips around, meeting the pressure of Cas’ hand as best he can. He can’t believe this is really happening. If he’d known it would feel this good, he would’ve suggested it years ago. 

Cas tucks his fingers into Dean’s snug red boxers and feels him out. Skin-on-skin. Dean groans and jerks his hips into the sudden enclosure of Castiel’s smooth fist. It’s tight and hot, a little rough. Just the way he likes it. But finding rough with strangers isn’t an easy thing. 

Meaning, this thing with Cas might be the ideal solution. No strings. Rough hands. Perfect.

Cas’ pace picks up, pumping Dean’s cock inside the stretched fabric of his boxer-briefs. He feels his orgasm rise up, a blissful swell of pressure building from the base of his shaft, his balls feeling heavy and tight. 

“Fuck,” he groans, “I’m gonna come…”

It only takes a few more strokes before Dean is cursing and firing a load into his underwear and all over Cas’ hand. His friend works every last shudder from him before pulling out and forcibly turning Dean around. 

Meeting Cas’ crystal blue eyes after being worked to an orgasm by him is a bit shocking. The man is heavily turned on. Pupils blown out, tight shorts even tighter. Dear fucking God, Cas just got him off. In their fucking kitchen. 

“Fuckin’ hell… that-that felt good,” admits Dean, blushing all the way to his ears, his heart still pounding. Come running in shameful streaks down his thighs.  

“I’m pleased. But not quite satisfied.” With a dark grin, Cas tilts his head and looks down. 

Not that Dean needed the reminder. Cas’ pronounced erection couldn’t hide behind a starched pair of jeans let alone skimpy little yoga shorts. 

“Suppose you want me to do something about that?” Dean smiles, feeling cocky. 

“You better. I didn’t propose this deal for the sake of your pleasure alone, Dean.”

No, he supposes not. “Too bad,” he grins. 

Dean’s only had limited experience with men, and there are a number of things he hasn’t done. Cas knows all of it, every detail of Dean’s sex life. And so… he knows Dean’s never gone to his knees for another man. Not because he never wanted to, but because he never trusted them not to fuck his mouth the way he knew they all wanted to. 

It’s obvious when Cas picks up on his train of thoughts. “However you want…” he tells Dean, leaning back against the counter. It’s spoken so casually, a slight thread of care weaving in, a kindness he likely wouldn’t get anywhere else.

Dean steps up and tentatively reaches out, his fingers barely grazing the line of Cas’ cock. It flinches under his soft touch and he catches a glimpse of Cas biting his bottom lip. “Hmmm, been a while for you too I bet. Who was the last guy… oh yeah,” Dean recalls, his fingers curling around the warm, thick ridge, “that pompous British fucker.  _ Man _ I hated that guy.”

With a gentle roll of his hips, Cas looks Dean in the eye. “Yes, Sebastien could be rather insolent.”

“No shit,” Dean agrees. After a bit more of stroking Cas through his shorts, Dean reaches for the waistband and inches them down, his mouth watering. 

Cas’ stiff erection juts out into the space between them and yeah… that’s his best friend’s cock. Full and hard, flushed a deep red matching Cas’ full bit-swollen lips. 

When he closes his hand around it, feeling the rigid girth and inner heat he almost moans but swallows the sound. What he’s doing is for Cas and Cas alone. Dean jerks him for a few minutes, watching Cas’ muscles ripple and seize under his skin.

“Benefits of this up-front sex deal,” Dean tells Cas, “feel free to give me direction. Fast, hard, slow… up to you, buddy.”

Cas smiles, his eyes closed and replies, “Hmm… yes. Slower then.”

Gazing down between them, Dean watches his hand glide gently over Cas’ long, perfect cock. Up and down, squeezing around the crown, watching a bead of precome weep out. He wonders why the moment feels so vivid until it occurs to him he’s likely never been with a man when he was sober. Not that he was always rip-roaring drunk, but definitely tipsy at the minimum. 

A low groan rumbles from Cas and he reaches out and plants a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Fast,” he breathes.

Dean readily appeases him, pumping his fist in rapid motions. “Like that?”

“Fuck…” Cas whines, “yes… keep going.”

Dean watches in rapture as Cas squeezes his eyes shut. The man’s mouth falling open as a crease forms between his brows. His best friend’s stiff cock poking in and out of his fist in a blur of obscenity.

Even before Cas stutters his name in warning, Dean feels the indicative surge of his erection a split-second before come shoots out, painting Dean’s already stained boxers in white streaks. 

Castiel’s chest heaves for several minutes, head tipped back to the ceiling. Beautiful mouth agape, gasping for air. 

Goddamn. Arousal is a great look on Cas. 

In the work of a second, Dean’s brain is kicking back to life. There’s a few things they haven’t talked about. Dean’s wondering about them now and figures there’s no better time to ask then while they’re standing in the kitchen with the scent of their actions hanging in the air. “Uh, we probably should’ve talked about a few things before we dove into this, I think.”

“Like what?” Cas asks in a testy voice, annoyed at having his post-orgasm high interrupted. He flashes Dean the same look he serves up in the morning. 

“You know… boundaries. What exactly we’re agreeing to here. Who wants to bottom, who doesn’t. Where does kissing fit into this?”

Cas holds up his palm. “You ask far too many questions. An orgasm is supposed to get your brain to settle down, Dean.”

Ha. This level of inner thought process is nothing compared to the norm. “This  _ is _ my brain settled.”

With an aggrieved grunt, Cas pegs him with a look. “Guess I’ll have to do better next time,” he promises. 

Dean fidgets at the implication and shifts on his feet. “Guess so. But, uh, you still haven’t answered my questions.”

“Fine.” Cas pulls up his shorts and takes a steep breath. “No kissing.”

Dean nods. Makes sense. Kissing is way too far on the romantic spectrum here and all their doing is fuck and release. 

“As for your other question,” Cas says. “I know you’ve never bottomed before… I assumed you wouldn’t want to.”

It’s along the same lines as the getting to his knees thing. Dean never liked feeling vulnerable to another person. Men in particular. With Cas, he doesn't have to worry. In eight years, Cas has never hurt him once or been anything less than a supportive, considerate friend. 

“You know why I haven’t though,” he explains.

“True. But Dean…” Cas sighs. “We agreed this would only be about sex... and bottoming for the first time… it’s intense. I don’t want you to see this as an opportunity to do something you’ve wanted to do because you know you can trust me. Trusting me is a lot different than actually  _ wanting _ your first time to be with me.”

Dean considers the caution, knows where Cas is coming from and has no doubt there’s some truth to it all. “I get what you’re saying, I do. But there’s a good chance I’ll never trust someone the way I trust you… and to me that’s everything.”

The way Cas looks at him then is careful, contemplative. “If you want to then… we can.”

Dean licks his lips, feels a swirl of anticipation in his gut. “Okie dokie then.” He snaps the band of his boxers and sighs. “Well, I’m gonna go get cleaned up.”

Cas smiles and follows him out of the kitchen. “Mmngh, one of these days I’m going to make an utter mess out of you.”

“The inner neat freak in me will have none of that.”

As Dean stops at his room, he turns to see Cas chuckling. “ _ Inner _ neat freak?”

“Shut up!” Dean stomps into his room and shuts the door. 


	10. Chapter 10

Castiel smiles groggily as Dean hands him his morning coffee. It takes significant effort, but he forces his eyes open a crack just in time to watch Dean’s naked form saunter out of his room. 

Last night, he went to bed almost unsure if yesterday had been real. But the memory of Dean’s jerking body as he hit release, warmth spreading onto Castiel’s fingers, is too vivid to be a lie. He can hardly wait for their next sexual encounter. 

Same as every other morning, Cas is on his way to work long before Dean. He guides his bike through early traffic and wonders how on earth he’ll be able to concentrate. Manhattan in the morning smells like exhaust and croissants. Sometimes a faint note of garbage, depending on the pick-up days. 

Castiel stops by his favourite bagel shop and picks up his breakfast now that he’s awake enough to be actually hungry. By the time he makes it to the office, it’s not even eight o’clock and no one else has arrived yet. 

He prefers it this way. Solitude and silence. 

One more way he and Dean are dissimilar. Cas may detest mornings, but he does his best work in the earlier part of the day and loves getting to work before anyone else is there to distract him. Dean, on the other hand, likes to dawdle in the morning. Prone to staying late, long after everyone has left. 

Over the next hour, their employees file in. Half of them carrying that groggy essence of a Monday morning in their slumped shoulders. Dean is the last to arrive and it’s obvious he looks a little off kilter. Although the crisp black dress pants and snug white dress shirt are a nice form of distraction from the evident tornado going through his unstoppable mind. He must have a meeting at some point.  

Dean bangs into the corner of Kevin’s desk as he’s walking by and Cas has to bury his laughter into the crook of his arm. 

Off kilter indeed. Nice to know he’s to blame for it. 

“You seem a little frazzled this morning,” he comments innocently as Dean steps into their office. “Something wrong?”

Dean’s green eyes dart around the room, casting a glance over his shoulder. He moves closer to Cas’ desk and whispers, “Shut it. No funny business at the office.”

Mmm. That sounds like a challenge. “Whatever you want.”

“Alright then.” Dean gives a hard nod and disappears around the bookcase. 

It’s hard not to imagine all the opportunities to fool around now that he knows he can. Being with Dean is within grasp at all times. Maybe not in all the ways he’d like, but enough. 

The morning passes uneventful. It’s nearly a miracle but Castiel manages to mock up a new logo and sketch out ideas for the app design their team is working on for a festival next spring. It’s more productivity than he honestly expected out of himself. 

At lunch, Dean pokes his head into the room. “Ready to go?”

“Yes, just need to finish up this one section,” as he replies, Castiel marks up on paper his notes for the sub menu page styles he wants to use for the app. Unlike his computer, Dean can’t unplug his work and is forced to wait. 

“Come on, I’m hungry.”

Cas grins, catches Dean’s eye through his lashes. “How hungry?”

Mouth twitching, Dean glances out to the office. All of their employees are either intently clacking away or chomping down on their lunch. No one is paying attention. When Dean looks back, there’s a definite flicker of interest in his expression. 

“Starving.”

And that’s all Castiel needs to push aside his work and get out of his chair. As they walk out, Dean mutters under his breath, “Guess I found another trick to get you out of that chair.”

Out on the sidewalk, Cas smirks. “Impending orgasms are a definite incentive.”

They walk over to the cluster of shops, towards the few food choices they always default to. One is a cafe with excellent sandwiches and salads. It also happens to have very clean and rather large bathrooms. Castiel slips between tables and walks quickly to the back of the shop, Dean trailing at his heels. 

“You want to do it here?!”

Castiel doesn’t bother to respond. Instead he opens the bathroom door and shoves Dean inside. In less than five seconds, he has Dean’s pants and boxers pooled at his feet and is crouched down, looking up. 

“Holy shit, are you seriously going to… I mean, right here?”

Throwing up a devilish smirk, Cas leans forward and flicks his tongue against Dean’s slit. “Right here.”

“Ah fuck… go for it.”

Cas reaches out and holds the base of Dean’s cock with his hand, his mouth sealing over the crown and sliding down the shaft. He hums and hears Dean’s head crack against the bathroom door. 

The flavour of Dean on his tongue is like nothing else. Masculine and a little salty. Cas reaches up to push Dean’s crisp dress shirt out of the way, which has the unintended effect of flattening Dean against the door. 

Dean swears and moans, his hands hesitantly sinking into Cas’ hair. The unexpected touch is sweet and gentle, makes Castiel want to coax Dean slowly towards release instead of rushing it. But they don’t have a lot of time. 

Gliding his lips over Dean’s shaft, he sucks and curls his tongue on the way up. Every time he pulls off, his hand twists, working Dean easier with a fresh coat of spit. It’s the same rhythm he’s always done. Suck down, up, twist. It get’s Dean off even better than he expected, the man choking for air and scratching fervently at Cas’ scalp. 

“Oh fuck, Cas… I’m gonna finish. Pull off if you—“

“ _ Mnngh _ ,” Cas moans to shut him up and buries his face into Dean’s groin, lips tight around the base of Dean’s hard, swollen cock. 

“Oh god!” barks Dean, “Fuuuck!”  

Dean’s hot sex kicks between Cas’ lips, come spurting in streaks down the back of his throat. He swallows everything and waits a moment before withdrawing from Dean and rearranging his pants. “So much for no funny business at work.”

With a sigh and a lazy smile, Dean says, “I said no funny business at the office. Anywhere else is fair game.”

Taking him completely by surprise, Dean yanks Cas to his feet and shoves him against the nearest wall, moving them away from the door. He’s giving Cas a hungry stare as he roughly undoes Castiel’s navy dress pants. 

“You know... “ Dean begins, an air of cocky intelligence clinging to his voice, “public restrooms have tens of thousands of different types of bacteria. You’re real fuckin’ lucky I know they keep this joint pretty damn clean.”

Cas grins. “Why do you think I chose it. I very well know Dean Winchester would not fool around in a less than pristine restroom.”

“Damn right I wouldn’t.”

Sporting a smirk, Dean tugs down the last few inches of Cas’ zipper. His pants fall to the floor with a implicative clunk of his belt.

Castiel swallows and tilts his head at Dean, darkening his gaze. His best friend licks his lips, making clear what he intends to do. Jesus Christ, Dean’s  _ never _ done this before. And he seriously wants  _ now _ to be the first time? In a restroom?! Castiel is stricken by disbelief. 

Dean licks his plump lower lip again and drops to his knees at Castiel’s feet. 

“Dean.” Castiel casts his eyes downward, trying to read his best friend. “You don’t… you don’t have to use your mouth. If you don’t want to. And certainly not here… if you don’t want to.”

Despite giving Dean an out, many outs, there’s no hiding how aroused he is by the thought of Dean going down on him. He can feel his heartbeat pulsing in his cock. In the baited pause, Dean splits his focus between Cas’ heated gaze and the subtle twitch of his hard-on. 

“Oh trust me, I want to.” Dean smirks and tentatively gives the tip a lick. 

They laugh as Castiel’s cock jerks wantonly in response. “But uh…,” Dean says softly,  glancing up, “mind telling me what to do? I mean I get the basics… Obviously. But ya know, some guidance of your personal brand of sucking preferences would be helpful.”

Dear god. Having Dean ask to be told what to do hits some deep pleasure centre Cas has never felt before. Unable to help himself, Castiel threads his fingers into Dean’s crunchy styled hair and guides him closer. “Open your mouth around me and seal your lips nice and tight.”

“Uh, over my teeth?”

“No, not necessary. Just don’t bite me,” he laughs.

Dean scrunches his nose playfully and snaps his teeth with a wink. “I  _ did _ say I was starving.”

Castiel had no idea Dean would be this way during sex. Snarky and combative. He loves it but for some unknown reason, he expected different. “We’ll feed you after. Now… open your mouth.”

Casting a taunting eye upward, Dean parts his lips in one sinful invitation. Castiel curses under his breath and guides the head of his cock to tease Dean. He pushes himself into the wet heat of Dean’s mouth barely an inch. Enough for Dean to feel him, not enough to startle. 

“Seal your lips around me.”

With a low hum, Dean responds. Castiel loses control of his breath at the feel of Dean’s wet tongue flat along the underside of his sex, plush lips wrapped tight around him. 

But Dean’s not moving yet, and Cas needs friction. Now.

“Suck on me as slow or as fast as you want. Go at whatever pace is comfortable for you.”

Dean acknowledges with a huff through his nose and works his lips up and down, trying to find a rhythm that satisfies both of them. In slow unsure motions, Dean tries to suck his way down, lower and lower. The second he trips his gag reflex and flinches, choking and pulling off, Castiel is enormously turned on. 

His erection jerks in the air, glistening with spit. Waiting for Dean continue. Castiel’s suddenly worried he won’t. “Go slow, don’t push yourself.” Every word is breathless and he scratches his nails over Dean’s scalp to help relax him.

Dean wipes his mouth. “Sorry, wanted to feel like a porn star for a second there.”

Castiel chuckles. “Not as easy as it looks, hmm?”

“Yeah well, you're not exactly average there, friend.”

“You know Dean, you’re doing a lot of talking for someone giving head.”

“Mnngh,” Dean growls, eyes full of fire. “Fucking bossy up there.”

Not holding back, Castiel grips a fistful of Dean’s short hair. Nudges the man’s lips with his spit-sticky cock. It’s impossible not to notice the way Dean’s eyes turn dark, flashing with unmistakable relief. 

“Suck,” he commands. 

There’s no misinterpreting the thick groan from Dean as anything other than unbridled want. He opens his mouth and lets Castiel shove in past his lips. Before, Dean was the one guiding the pace but Castiel should’ve known he’d try to deep throat when he couldn’t. There won’t be any of that now. 

No. Castiel has control now. 

Keeping hold of Dean by his hair, Castiel thrusts into his mouth in shallow bursts. Dean’s eyes glaze over, becoming unfocused. His low moans rise and pitch, desperate. Castiel can see the muscles of Dean’s thighs bunching through his dress pants, hips faintly jerking… showing off the renewed erection straining against his zipper. 

“Fuck, you feel good,” Castiel praises, plunging a little further than before. His best friend flutters his eyes closed and groans deep in his throat, fists white-knuckled by his sides.

Christ. Dean looks dazed in the most fascinating, most captivating way.

It’s possible his friend is even more aroused than Cas is. But God, how? Whatever, he’s not going to complain. He works himself into Dean’s wet, soft, feverishly hot mouth for another minute until he knows he can’t hold back much longer. 

The crest of his orgasm rises, making his stomach clench. “Dean,” he warns, tugging at the man’s hair.

Without backing off, Dean reaches forward and clutches at Cas’ hips, fingers digging in, ensuring he doesn’t move away.  Castiel feels the first spasm of his release and through the haze of euphoria he watches Dean flinch and take it. But there’s no bob of his Adam’s apple, meaning he's holding it in his mouth. 

When Cas is done, he pulls out and looks down at Dean. There’s a distinct and flagrant disruption in the dynamics of this friends with benefits situation. Nothing like it was yesterday. Castiel feels it in his bones. He needs to take care of Dean in ways he doesn’t understand. 

Without thinking too hard on the matter, he gives Dean a hard look and reaches out to grasp his chin. “Swallow.”

Dean groans and after a second, he does. His eyes flutter closed and he looks utterly spaced and blissed out. “I, uh, I don’t think I can… can get up,” he mumbles, swaying on his knees.

Yes, Castiel figured that might be the case. He reaches down and pulls Dean to his feet, keeping his arms wrapped around the other man. “I’d say that was a little more intense for your first time than you expected.”

“Hmm,” Dean mumbles, leaning in to rest his cheek against Cas’ shoulder. “No. ‘S perfect.”

“Dean?” Castiel puts some space between them so he can read Dean’s face. “Everything okay?”

The man nods. “Yeah,” he says on an exhale. Dean shakes his head, forcing himself alert. “Well then. I guess it’s… I mean think it’s definitely time to eat. Fuck… it’s probably time to go home, er… back to the office I mean. But I need to eat. Fucking starving.” He casually rubs his crotch, no doubt trying to stifle any lingering arousal. “I suppose we fucking own the joint we can take a long lunch if we want to, right?”

Castiel grins, loving the way Dean stumbles over his words—something Cas has never quite witnessed before. “Absolutely. Besides, I have no intention of letting you leave without making sure you eat something. Work can wait.”

Walking from the back to an empty table, Dean offers a breathy laugh. “Alright, boss. You’re buying then.”


	11. Chapter 11

The next week passes in a blur of dirty encounters of the sexual kind. Dean’s never had so much sex in his life; it’s goddamn addictive.

On Monday, Dean finds himself pinned face-first to the shower wall as Cas rocks his hips and wet cock between Dean’s asscheeks. No penetration though. Because apparently Cas has made it his mission to tease Dean with it, make him insane with curiosity and lust.

Joke’s on you, buddy. Dean Winchester is _not_ the begging type. If he has to suffer through a few days of being taunted by a new experience because his best friend is a sinful bastard then so be it. Dean’s handled worse in his life.

The next two days are a haze of orgasms. It’s as if they’ve been given a drink of what it’s like to have sex on demand, mere several feet away, and now they’re so fucking thirsty for it. Chugging down every opportunity, gorging themselves on each other. Getting off whenever and however they want.

Alright, not exactly _however_ they want. Because Dean wants to get fucked and so far that’s been held off the table.

But goddammit, he will not beg.

On Wednesday night, universally dubbed “hump night” to the masses, Castiel makes it his mission to grind it out on the couch. Fully clothed. Like fucking teenagers.

Dean’s not exactly thrilled by the impediment of clothing but he enjoys a good challenge. And so he straddles himself over Cas’ strong bony hips, lays out flat on top of the guy and fucking gives it to him.

It occurs to him halfway through their little dry-hump fiasco they should've turned the heat down because they’re both dripping sweat, clothes glued to their skin. But God if the whole thing doesn’t add fuel to the fire. Grabbing a fistful of couch cushion past Castiel’s fluffy damp hair, Dean bears down and drags his aching cock against the hard bulge in Cas’ old ratty sleep bottoms.

A frustrated groan rips past his lips and he buries his face into the crook of Cas’ shoulder, fighting the urge to bite his friend. In a soft, annoyingly desperate whisper, he says, “Fuck… Cas, I-I can’t like this.”

Not to be put off his goal, Cas presses a hand encouragingly into the small of Dean's back. “You will,” is all Cas replies.

The hard determined tone of his voice strikes a hot match in Dean, reigniting his determination. Pushing his knees further apart, he rolls his hips down and forward. The friction on his cock is just barely enough. If he focuses, if he tenses his whole body so hard it hurts he knows he’ll get there. The harder he tries, the more he struggles to breathe and chokes on every moan, the rumbling from his chest cracked and heavy.

“Please,” he mutters, barely audible. Denying to himself how horribly like begging it sounds.

But, fuuuuck, it works. Because Cas hums a little pleased sound in the back of his throat and dips his fingers under the waistband of Dean’s pants, bare skin sliding over the curve of his ass. Cas grabs him and roughly jerks Dean against him, using the thick flesh of his ass as leverage. It feels so good, his pelvis tingles and tightens. All the fabric bunched between them has nearly driven him mad and yet it manages to make him want it more, strokes his arousal like a fire craving oxygen.

“You’re going to come, Dean… make me feel it.” Cas’ husky voice rumbles loud against his ear, driving a new strangled sound from his mouth.

And if he doubted his ability to climax, he doesn’t when Cas releases his clench on Dean’s ass to slide a few fingers between the crease, teasing the tight nerve-ridden entrance there. Pleasure hits him quick and hard, a firecracker thrill from having Cas’ fingers soooo fucking close to where Dean really wants them.

Christ, he has no hope in controlling himself. None at all. He’s a goner.

He comes with a broken gasp against Cas’ cheek, hips shuddering and spilling his boxers with heat and wetness.

Cas doesn’t let him up to clean himself, instead the man grinds hard against Dean, makes him feel the mess he’s created… makes him rub through it even though his cock is becoming achingly sensitive. Almost more than he can take before Cas ultimately cries out his release, jerking underneath him, the thick ridge of his sex spurting so hard Dean feels it wet their shirts.

So, all in all, Wednesday Hump Day, was… pretty fucking good. No actual fucking, to Dean’s continued dismay, but pretty fucking awesome.

Thursday is all about mouths and lips and tongue.

By this point, Dean wonders if Cas has some kind of sexual plan for their little friends with benefits pact. Maybe on Friday Dean will get laid. Although, Cas making Dean suck him off is insanely erotic. And not ‘cause it’s still new for Dean, or because anything to do with sex at all gets him off pretty easy but the way Cas gets to him. The way he guides Dean, tells him what to do and when to do it.

Every quiet command making him so eager with want he can’t think straight.

Castiel has Dean kneel between his feet in front of the couch. Which is just fine, he supposes, not a bad way to give a blow job, really. But Cas doesn’t let him suck at first. No, he makes Dean wrap his lips around his best friend’s heavy half-hard dick and just sit there and hold it, swallowing the spit that builds under his tongue; an awkward motion when a warm cock is stuffed in between his teeth. All he keeps wondering is how on earth Cas enjoys this. It’s almost dull.

Almost. But also… not at all. Not fucking at all.

The longer Cas keeps him on the floor, one hand caressing and holding the side of Dean’s face, the more stubbornly aroused Dean becomes. After a few minutes he can’t hold still, starts to whine to move, grumbling noises rolling up from the back of his throat only to vibrate along the length of Cas’ thick sex.

When Cas finally starts to move, it’s slow. His hand stays on Dean’s face, cupping his cheek in a far too affectionate gesture for friends but Dean is too lost in the moment to notice, let alone be bothered by it.

Dean jerks himself off as Cas makes use of his mouth and he wonders, in a way far back distant corner of his insanely complicated mind, why on earth he gets off best when Cas is on the receiving end of pleasure.

Either he is a serious giver by nature or he has some wires crossed. Because two friends using each other for sex usually implies you’d tend to prefer getting things done to you over anything else.

Although, Cas is certainly _doing_ something to Dean. Driving him insane, making his hips tremble and his thighs ache with tension.

When Cas comes, it’s all over Dean’s face, strips of come running down his cheeks and forehead, beads of it trickling into his mouth and exploding across his tongue. And _that_ is what finally takes Dean over the edge, grunting in a breathless sound of euphoria.

He tries not to dwell on why having Cas’ hot come splattered all over his face got him off so hard, so fast.

On Friday—wonderful, amazing end-of-the-week Friday—Dean is sure they’re going to have sex. Actual sex. As in dick in the ass kind of sex. Christ, he can barely function at work because of it. By the time he’s darting between cars on his Harley, dangerously so to get home, he realizes he’s too eager.

Way too eager. Wanting Cas this bad was _never_ part of the equation.

Fuck. All the sex makes him crave not just more of the same but Cas himself. The man is just so fucking hot. Unbelievably sexy. Those stupidly blue eyes and perma-scruff and his gorgeous tats. And sure, Dean always sort of knew the guy was easy on the eyes, but only in a casual understanding that his best friend is attractive. Not that he’s necessarily attracted.

Alright, alright, that’s a lie.

Once in a while, yes, he’s succumbed to that attraction, or his body has at least. Rising with pleasure, no matter Dean’s thoughts on the matter or rejection.  

It’s quicksand. An emotional bear trap. He needs to step back or he's setting himself up for disaster. Or worse… a fucking relationship.

No way in hell is Dean letting himself stumble into a His & His future. Of all the people Dean’s ever known, all the relationships he’s ever witnessed first hand or been told about. He can’t think of a single one that hasn’t ended.

His brother is the only exception. And hey, that’s still new.

Dean is sure-as-shit not ruining his friendship for the sole fact they’re both horny motherfuckers. Fuck this. Whether or not Cas would’ve fucked him tonight is a moot point. It’s not going to happen. Not when Dean wants it this bad. Not when he would gladly take a shot to the nuts three times in a row just to be able to spend the entire weekend being fucked and ordered around by his bossy best friend.

And seriously what is with Dean getting so hot and bothered by Cas barking orders at him?

Whatever. Some things are so glaringly unhealthy that even the most emotionally stunted humans can see it. Dean being a prime example.

Okay, now that that’s decided. Dean needs to find something else to do because God knows if he stays in the apartment he’s gonna drop his damn metaphorical panties for his best friend as if they were lead-weighted. Jesus, he’s been so hard up for it, for anything, you’d think he’s being paid.

Hmm. Something to do that will ensure he and Cas don’t wind up sucking each other off? Well, he thinks, can’t go around sucking dicks in public.

It’s decided. They need to get out of this fucking hedonistic haze taking over their apartment. Fresh air. Some beers. Just like friends do.

Great plan, Dean. Excellent.

*     *     *

Cas arrives home a little later than usual, having had a long meeting with Charlie to discuss the designs for a new website for one of their clients. They’re on a tight deadline and he needs to make sure they have something mocked up by the end of next week.

It was gruelling to say the least.

Not only does he hate working late, but he sucks at it. Usually after three in the afternoon, Castiel’s productivity drops to about twenty-percent. More often than not, he used to spend a whole hour writing in secret, spinning stories about himself and Dean together in some capacity. But with all the action he’s been getting from Dean, the written fantasies aren’t drawing him in the way they used to.

Every fantasy he’s thought of, he can act now. Whenever he wants. All of them except the deeper emotional ones, the fairytale stupid endings he comes up with. It’s childish and wishful, and he's glad to have the stories off his radar for once.

As long as he focuses on the sex and nothing else, everything is perfect.

This is exactly what he intends when he crosses the threshold of their apartment: to spend the night in various positions completely naked. Whether or not he tops Dean is another issue altogether. Castiel knows himself rather well and although the pleasure of it would be unmatched of anything he’s ever experienced, he can’t be sure his emotions won’t take over.

For Dean’s sake, he's been holding back until he knows he can carry on without breaking down and confessing some very stupid things to a man who despises relationships.

All his hopes for an evening of debauchery is thwarted when he watches Dean walk towards him, full of purpose, already wearing his leather jacket. “Finally! You’re home. Keep your jacket on, we’re going out.”

Cas frowns, his disinterest in the night’s plans clear. “I’d much rather fool around.”

An expression flickers across Dean’s face, hesitance and… something else. Cas can’t be sure. “K, listen, horn-dog,” Dean points a finger at him, “we can’t go and spend every night sucking each other off. We need to get out, do other things… best friend things.”

Ah, Dean’s getting skittish. Maybe he’s already picking up on Cas’ mixed feelings. But he looks tense, as if it’s taking a lot of effort not to screw the night’s plan and let Cas take over. It’s impossibly tempting. But seeing as Cas enjoys spending time with Dean, no matter the activity, he’s game for leaving the apartment. “Sure, sounds like a plan. What do you want to do?”

“Nothin’ special,” shrugs Dean. “Go have a drink, maybe chat up some people, eat shit food on the way home.”

“Alright.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

In no time, Dean’s got them to a bar and the beers are ordered. A man on a mission, it seems.

Cas struggles not to laugh under his breath as Dean tries hard to push the wall of friendship and  _ only _ friendship back up between them. He orders a beer even though he prefers the girly drinks when he goes out and rambles on to Cas about every hot body who crosses their path. 

It’s all so pointless. 

Castiel knows Dean hasn’t been looking or wanting hookups with randoms for months. But the fake interest is all part of his newly erected brick wall. It’s slightly annoying because Castiel can see how very unwanted it is. 

He can feel Dean wanting him from two feet away, can feel the man’s arousal flux against his skin like it’s a hot breeze in the room. All he wants to do is give Dean what the man really wants, make him succumb to his own desires and effectively tell his overactive brain to fuck off. 

As they down a couple more drinks, only barely tipsy, Castiel says, “Let’s go dance, maybe you can be my wingman.”

Dean perks up at the opportunity, despite the spark of jealousy Cas doesn’t miss. A dark flash across his eyes. “Yeah, definitely! Come on, buddy… let’s, uh, get you someone with actual potential. Not just the best friend you use to get off.” There’s a sharp edge to Dean’s voice and it only tips Cas off more, giving him other ideas for the night. 

On the dance floor, Dean makes a show of scoping out potential future dates for Cas. It’s half-hearted at best, his green eyes always dutifully returning to Castiel. But he always looks away again, quickly, raising the mouth of the beer bottle to his well-defined lips and chugging down a few gulps. 

Cas hides his smile by taking a drink as well. “See anyone for me?” he goads. 

“Hmm,” Dean scrunches his nose, “I dunno. Not liking the options around here.”

With a devious grin, he gestures to a random man, not even caring who. “Wouldn’t mind getting to know him. Maybe…” he leads Dean, forcing an uncertain note into his voice, “maybe you could dance with me… see if he comes over.”

Biting his lip, Dean nods. “Uh, sure.” 

Same as last week, Dean draws him in close and folds around him. It’s a relief to feel the heat of Dean’s body after such a long day. He sighs but isn’t sure if Dean hears it or not. He does, however, feel the tension in Dean. Every muscle hard and unyielding. 

Dean’s fighting his attraction, his need for Cas. 

For some reason, this pisses Castiel off. 

Knowing Dean needs him, needs the release, he’s gonna make sure it happens. They don’t have to be at home for him to get Dean off. After the week they’ve had, he knows how to push Dean over the edge without thinking about it.

It’s like he was designed to unravel Dean. And Dean, beautifully neurotic and always in control… always worrying and thinking and doing, Dean lets go for Castiel as if he’s been waiting for it his whole life. It’s the most honest truth Castiel has ever seen in his best friend’s eyes. A bliss and peace like nothing else. He doesn’t know how he managed to do it, not entirely sure if Dean’s been like this for anyone else. All he knows is that he has to take care of Dean.

And he’s going to take care of Dean right now. 

Guiding his hands to Dean’s hips, he pulls his friend close, feeling the hitch of breath in the man’s chest as his body lines up against Cas’ front. Their legs twine together, Dean’s thick thighs straddling Cas’ upper leg, groin pushed neatly into his hip. 

Already, he can feel Dean’s buzzing energy, the flex of his muscles. His fingers slip under Dean’s shirt and slide over to the tattoo on Dean’s hip, casually tracing the lines by memory… having done them himself. It’s hard to think around the impossible presence of Dean’s insatiable hunger, hanging there between them like a fog in the space between their clothes. Cas has to give it to him, to wash him in pleasure so cripplingly intense he's left limp and wordless. But best of all… thoughtless, finally peaceful. 

“Cas,” Dean’s voice catches, his breath hot against Castiel’s ear. 

“Dean…” he replies, dragging the word out. “Tell me, did you demand we go out tonight because you’re apprehensive over what we've been doing?”

As he waits for Dean’s answer, he tries to find a rhythm with the song, rocking his hips against Dean in a way he hopes is natural. Castiel may not be the best dancer, but he’s pretty damn good at sex… or so he’s been told. Besides, what he lacks in gyrating skills he plans to make up for with words. A powerful tool he hasn’t quite put to use with Dean just yet. 

“Uhhh,” Dean swallows, swaying against him. “Maybe… kinda, I guess.”

“Why?”

Quietly, Dean shrugs. “It’s all we were doing,” he murmurs, voice low. 

“You mean… it’s all you  _ want _ to do?” Castiel guesses. 

Dean doesn’t respond, pointedly ignoring the question and giving Castiel all the fuel he needs. “I bet it’s all you thought about all day,” he starts whispering to Dean, “how you want to spend every hour of every day getting wrecked by your best friend. Feeling guilty about it. Wanting it so bad you scared yourself. And I suppose you thought being out in public would help?” 

Taking a breath, Castiel wraps his arms around Dean’s back and forces their bodies together so tight there’s not a sliver of space between them, their chests fighting for room to expand. “Let me correct your assumptions, Dean… because even here,” he grinds into his roommate, “with thrashing bodies all around us, perhaps watching us”—he reaches and grabs Dean’s ass, earning a sharp groan from the man— “I want you to think of one thing… And we all know how good you are at letting your thoughts spin out of control. Let me paint you a picture,” Cas feels the roughness of his voice, naughty intentions stirring reactions in him. 

Music pounds around them, beating a rhythm in their chests. Lights whipping around the room like neon gesturing arms. 

“We’re at home,” he begins, setting the scene, “I’m stripping all of your clothes off… one by one. Every.  _ Irritating. _ Layer,” he growls. “Unwrapping you, revealing you. Tracing every line of ink on your body with my tongue, biting the ones I drew for you… from the monster to the spaceship… Soon, you can barely stand so I bend you over the counter. It’s cool and hard against your hot, naked chest.”

Cas hears Dean suck in a breath, starting to pant against his ear. The man’s thighs are tensing up over and over, clenching against the muscles of Cas’ leg. There’s definitely a growing ridge filling out against Cas’ hip and he works himself against it, feeling Dean squirm inside his embrace, grinding more and dancing less. 

“I rub down your back,” he continues, “feeling the muscles tense and flinch under my fingers, watch the shivers shudder down your spine. I get you to suck my fingers, all of them. Make you taste me.” Here, Castiel dips his index into the back of Dean’s jeans, sliding into the hot crevice of Dean’s ass. “And only when you ask, only when you beg and are so aroused, so turned on you can't think anymore, that’s when I slide my fingers into you… your own spit easing the way… One at a time, maybe two if you ask nice. Curling them in you… feeling you in places you’ve never let a man touch you. You’re squirming and writhing, begging me for things you don’t even understand. Not a single coherent thought in that gorgeous intelligent mind other than wanting your best friend to fuck you so hard you  _ want _ to scream,  _ need _ to scream.” 

Dean trembles in his arms, his ass clenching under Cas’ touch. “I will Dean… I’ll give you that. Hold your hips and fill you up the way you’ve always wondered about, wanted, craved all these years and never dared to let anyone give it to you… too scared to trust anyone. And now you aren’t scared… because you trust me and it’s easy with me…. and it feels really fucking good.” Castiel drags the pad of his finger through the slick sweat building in Dean’s hot crease, uses it to dig in deeper, knowing Dean’s jeans are too tight to let him go as far as he wants. 

But he’s got Dean right where he wants him. 

“Imagine my cock buried inside you, right now… swollen and thick… wet with lube… thrusting in and pulling out. Filling your very tight ass until you come, your body spasming around my intrusive presence… every pulse a dirty reminder you let your best friend fuck you and worst of all… how you’ll want it again… and again… and again” With each repetition of the word he fingers at Dean, close enough to make him ache, pressing hard, insistent. Press-press- _ press _ . 

In a sudden jerk of motion, accompanied by a low choppy groan, Dean comes in his jeans right on the dance floor, heaving and shaking and falling apart in Cas’ arms. 

*     *     *

Dean’s mind is wonderfully, amazingly blank. 

All he feels is  _ good. _ Every nerve in his body is relaxed, relieved. He can’t bother to remember why on earth he thought avoiding this was such a great idea. He’s an idiot, obviously. A dumbass genius.

It’s becoming very clear he can’t function without Cas exquisitely making him explode from the inside out. Maybe it’s twisted and unhealthy, but god help him, because he can’t avoid how blindingly good it feels. He won’t. Besides, as long as it stays about sex and only sex… everything is aces. 

Who the fuck cares if they have sex twelve times a day or that he gets off on Cas bossing him around. Who the fuck cares because it’s the best he’s ever felt in his whole life. It’s like he’s lived in a hamster wheel and Cas finally figured out how to stop the damn thing. 

In a slow, sultry voice, pulling Dean out of his haze, Cas whispers, “Quite the picture, isn’t it? I call it  _ Desperation _ , done in verbal prose. You like it?”

Dean is still clutching to Cas, lax muscles weak and twitchy. He tries to get his wits about him, but it’s all scrambled. Cas managed to fuck him in prose. 

What… the… hell. 

“It’s, it’s”—he pants for some air—“it’s no, uh, no condiment Constantine… but um, it’ll d—It was good. It was real good. A masterpiece.”


	13. Chapter 13

It’s been raining all morning. Not quite pouring, but harder than a drizzle. 

Looking out through the window, all Cas sees is a thick, dense blanket of grey and streaks of water. The wet asphalt amplifies the whir of cars going by on the street below. All of it blurs into pleasant background noise, a hum patterned by the dap-dap-dap of the steady rain. It makes for a lazy weekend atmosphere Cas loves. 

They’ve kept the lamps off even though the natural light is dim. Cas thinks it makes the living room seem half asleep, which amuses him. It’s nice and calm between himself and Dean, quiet even, despite the melodramatic chatter coming from whatever inane TV hospital show Dean is watching. 

Cas avoids rolling his eyes as some terribly predictable life-or-death situation arises; Dean’s eyes fixed on every scene. God in heaven, how many medical dramas could there possibly be? It’s seems like Dean’s always got a new episode to watch. 

They agree on sci-fi, for the most part. But definitely  _ not _ on these types of shows. Cas finds them nauseatingly predictable.

Curled up in the oversized chair kitty-corner from the couch, Cas yawns and rolls his shoulders back. He’s tired after last night… not to mention marginally blue-balled after getting Dean off and never attending to his own needs. 

But he’ll live. 

He resets his focus, tuning out the television as best he can and looks down at the pencil sketch on his pad. At first he was fiddling with a new logo for a client, but then he got distracted and started sketching a new tattoo that’s been in the back of his mind. 

Starting is the hardest part, making that first line and twisting it into the thing you see behind your eyes. 

Closing his eyes for a moment, Cas visualizes a blended mix of deep purple flowers with pops of teal and dark green foliage—he sketches this out with notes about colour. He adds some branch work, webbing it into and behind the flowers. And then as quirky add-ons, he pencils in a couple bees. On one side of the sketch, he draws faint honeycomb lines, imagining how they might fade across skin. 

Castiel hears the couch creak under stress and glances up through his lashes to see Dean adjusting into a deeper Saturday groove, leaning back into the corner, his bowed legs sprawled towards the other end. 

It takes a moment to wonder what’s different. What it is, exactly, that makes Castiel squint and tilt his head a fraction, as if the new angle will solve the mysterious query running through his thoughts. 

He exhales through his noise in quiet surprise when he realizes. 

Dean is still. Not tensely so or still the way he often is when a knee or fingers or foot are incessantly moving and tapping and driving Castiel slowly insane. 

Thinking back on their friendship and cohabitation over the years, Castiel cannot recall another time where Dean has looked quite so relaxed. His green eyes, while unwavering from the stupid show on TV, are lazy… as if his thoughts are—for once—marginally calm. 

No bouncing knees. No tapping feet. Nothing. 

Cas smiles without realizing it. Not sure exactly what emotion is stirring inside his chest. Pride? Did he cause it? The image of Dean in the bathroom at the cafe rises to the forefront of his mind. Blissed out, dazed. Not quite how he is now, but there’s a similar vibe. One of peace or calm. 

Dean has always been like a storm. Or a fan running on hyperspeed. Now he’s a calm foggy lake on a misty fall morning—something Castiel now has the sudden desire to paint. He makes a little note in his sketchbook. It’s been a while since he’s painted and he’s low on supplies. 

After spending far too long making a mental list of things he wants to buy the next time he goes to Blick’s, he flips to a fresh page in his sketchbook and adjusts his position again, tucking one leg under the other. Subconsciously facing Dean more than he was before. 

He shamelessly lets his eyes travel over the lines of his best friend. From his bare feet… up those lightly haired bowed legs to where his sport-style black boxer-briefs sit tight around his thighs, his crotch sadly covered by an old MIT zip-up hoodie. 

For another handful of seconds, and then a handful more, Cas takes note of the exact shape of Dean, the angle of each curve, the depth and shadows around him. He looks down at his sketchbook and starts penciling an outline, eyes darting up every few blinks to check his work. 

He’s drawn caricatures of Dean before, but never anything serious. Not that he hasn’t wanted to. For several obvious reasons, it always seemed… inappropriate. 

Now? After the things they’ve done, he no longer feels the same hesitations. Or maybe he just doesn’t care anymore. What does it even matter. 

By the time he’s sketched out the rough outlines of the couch and Dean’s overall shape, about to start working on the interior lines and shading, he feels a prickle of attention and looks up. 

Dean is staring at him. 

Not intensely or suspiciously. His vibrant green eyes are watching Castiel the same way he was watching TV earlier… casual interest with an undercurrent of that sluggish Saturday mood that seems to be a haze in their apartment. 

A flicker of something ticks the corner of Cas’ mouth, a smile maybe as he looks away for a moment. Yet it feels predatory in his bones, proprietary even. Something indecent in him wanting to pull on the easy strings of Dean’s wanton pleasure and play it like an instrument. 

When he glances back after sketching a few more lines, Dean is still looking in his direction. There’s a flushed tinge to his cheeks and a notable hunger darkening his eyes. Cas notices, and the feeling already inside him flares, making him feel hot all over. 

Time drags by, and he feels his body respond to Dean, hardening and flexing with unspent energy. His best friend is having a reaction too, given the way he’s just licked his lips and cocked his knee to the side a little. It offers Cas an unhindered view of the space between Dean’s legs, where the man’s balls are a visible bulge behind those thin black briefs. 

Cas grins to himself and looks away. He focuses on his sketch and erases the former position of Dean’s left leg to accommodate the new view. 

He stops before he starts drawing the lines of Dean’s clothing. He’d rather they were gone. Feeling his adrenaline and arousal rise in tandem, Castiel raises his chin and peers over at Dean.

In a slow significant gaze, Castiel rakes his eyes down the length of Dean’s body. Stopping at his groin and then flicking up one eyebrow at Dean in a blatant demand. 

Dean blushes all the way to his hairline. His body curls faintly with a shot of pleasure Cas doesn’t miss. With a noticeably shaky hand, Dean draws up the hem of his maroon-coloured hoodie and tucks his thumb into the broad, navy blue elastic band of his boxers and stops. 

Licking his bottom lip, Dean’s eyes flash up to Castiel’s again as if asking for permission or clarification. 

Cas nods with a shallow dip of his chin. 

Breathing heavy now, Dean drags the tight briefs down to reveal his full rigid cock and the beautiful breadth of his hips, freckled smooth skin highlighted between the dark fabric of his underwear and sweater. 

Saliva floods Castiel’s mouth at the sight. Dean’s erection, uncovered and bare to him on this silent afternoon with the rain falling outside and the soft shadows all around them, is like a secret given to him and him alone in this moment.

Dean meets his eyes with helpless need and confusion. Despite his expression, neither of them speak.  

Instead, Castiel forces his attention back on the sketch. He starts working on the inside of Dean’s thighs, the wide set vee of space narrowing to the point where his black briefs are stretched tight across his muscular thighs, his one hand still holding the front down to give Cas the view he wanted. 

Drawing Dean this way has the anticipated effect of making Castiel tight in the groin, highlighting the irritation he was already feeling from being aroused the night before without release. His erection sits heavy inside his yoga pants, a growing ache that’s more uncomfortable than pleasing.

He tucks the pencil behind his ear and reaches down to stroke himself through his pants, closing his eyes to enjoy the breath of relief.  

This drags a moan out of Dean; the abrupt noise in the silence startling Castiel. His eyes flash open to find Dean with one hand poised beside his dick, a desperate question in the wide set of his eyes. 

Christ. He’s waiting for Castiel to give him permission. Why, Cas hasn’t a clue. But he knows that he fucking loves it. 

Same as before, he casts a significant look to Dean’s twitchy fingers then back to his pleading green eyes and nods. 

Dean breathes a weighted sigh before closing his hand around the length of his cock and giving it a squeeze, followed by an upward stroke. He bowes off the couch a little, thrusting into his fist. It’s goddamn magnificent. The way he arches up, how his eyes snap closed before opening again with a new level of pleasure weaving through his veins. 

Retrieving his pencil, Castiel starts to sketch again. Furiously. He shades and angles the tantalizing lines of Dean’s undulating body. He originally wanted Dean to get completely naked but somehow the bunched, taut fabric of his stretched black boxers and rucked up hoodie that just barely showcases his trembling abs is unexpectedly provocative.  

Eyes darting back and forth between his hand on his own dick and Cas’ watchful heated stare, Dean continues to jerk off. Arching up at random, sometimes navigating lower to handle his weighted sac, sometimes biting his lip. 

When a thick bead of precome wells from the tip like a water fountain on the lowest setting, Dean catches Cas’ eye and stills, his mouth falling open, chest frozen. His stiff cock kicks inside his grip, surging close to climax. More precome spills and flows in a creamy tear down the plush head where it catches on Dean’s finger and continues down over his knuckles. 

Castiel can’t help himself. His dick throbs from the sight of it all, his balls full and aching. A curse rips past his lips in a rough whisper, breaking the perceived pact of silence between them. 

Somehow his traitorous mouth turns Dean on more. His best friend groans low in his throat and angles his head back over the arm of the couch, highlighting the column of his neck. 

Castiel moves without thinking. 

One second he’s got a pencil in his hand and a sketchpad balanced on his leg and the next both items are discarded on the floor and he’s crossing the space to Dean. With one leg, he shoves the coffee table out of the way and approaches his roommate. 

He can feel the passion radiating from inside him. Can see it reflected in the shock flashing in Dean’s eyes. 

With one hand, Castiel shoves his pants and boxers down his hips where they end up lopsided and stretched across his knees. Dean’s eyes flare wide at the sight of Cas’ hard length inches from his mouth. 

Cas doesn’t ask for it, nor does he nod. 

The look on Dean’s face is that of a man on his knees, even if he’s not. So, Castiel reaches out and cups the back of Dean’s neck and drags him closer to the edge of the couch. With his free hand, Cas pumps himself a few times—more to see the hunger on Dean’s face than to feel the moment’s gratification. 

Curious, Castiel looks down to see Dean is still gripping around the length of his own sex, almost as if he’s choking it out and trying to block his impending orgasm. His finger and thumb tightly circled below the flushed head glistening with come. 

It takes Cas’ breath away that Dean doesn’t move towards him. That he waits. Obediently. Where it’s coming from he can’t be sure. Either way, it’s endearing and delicious and makes the fire in his veins roar. 

Amidst all of it, the arousal and the relative calm and the distraction, there’s a blanket of confusion here too. Cas ignores it, for now.  

Closing his eyes, he fucks into his hand a little more until he feels himself leak just a little. He opens his eyes with a grin and uses his hold on the back of Dean’s neck to bring his friend’s lips in close enough to kiss the wetness from the tip of his cock. 

He drags the plush head of his dick along the seam of Dean’s mouth, glossing him in precome. 

Dean moans and peers up at Cas with something akin to desperation or distress marking his features. He looks confused—maybe unsure why he likes it when Cas takes control, maybe a little panicky about the intensity of their hookups. 

God knows Cas is. 

But does he stop? No. Because fucking christ Dean is stretched out on the couch, clothes a wrinkled mess, dick ruddy and weeping, knuckles white, breaths rampant. 

Despite their unspoken pact of silence, or relative silence despite the occasional curse and groan, Castiel squeezes the back of Dean’s neck and prods at his lips, then says, “Try not to come until I tell you.”

Dean squirms in protest but groans with a whiny edge. His body tenses, then releases a shudder as he tries to relax. 

Licking his lips, Dean asks, “Are you going to fuck my mouth?” 

Hmmm. Honestly, Cas wasn’t planning to be rough, hadn’t even crossed his mind. But Dean doesn’t seem to be asking ‘cause he’s scared or nervous or uninterested, no, instead he looks downright thirsty. Not exactly something Cas expected.

“Do you want me to?” Castiel tests, holding back the grin he feels tensed in his cheeks.

Dean hesitates for a half second before blurting out the quietest, shakiest, “Yes,” Cas has ever heard. Spoken like a relief, like a sigh. Like he knew he’d never have the guts to ask his best friend to drill his mouth outright... and is immeasurably grateful Cas offered it up. 

Instead of answering out loud, Cas nods seriously. His best friend wants to experiment… might as well oblige, right?

Swallowing a rush of arousal, Castiel handles his length and pushes the head hard against Dean’s sticky lips until the man opens up and lets him bury himself inside. He doesn’t test the waters the way he did last time. He knows just how far to go before tripping Dean’s gag reflex, so he does. 

Dean moans and curls his hips at the sudden invasion, making Castiel even harder than he was. The way Dean’s lips are parted, the pliant openness of his mouth makes Cas want to go fast and rough. 

Though he doesn’t. Needing, instead, to savour this. 

Slowly, he drags his fingers to the front of Dean’s throat and runs his finger and thumb in a double-line down over his Adam’s apple all the way to the start of the hoodie’s zipper. Castiel pinches the cool metal tab and starts to inch it down. 

Reach limited and impatience high, Castiel abandons the removal of Dean’s sweater to palm across the partially revealed expanse of his chest.  Half the man’s sweater is still cinched together over his abs, but it leaves enough of him exposed for Castiel to roam across at his leisure as he continues to slowly fuck into Dean’s mouth. 

Castiel scratches his nails over Dean’s skin and works his way over to the man’s taut nipples. He pinches one hard and grins as his best friend grunts in pleasure, the shocked sound muffled by Cas’ hard-on. 

One day he’ll have to use his mouth and his teeth because it’s clear how sensitive Dean is. In fact, Dean has turned out to be one of the most responsive sexual partners Cas has ever had. It’s captivating. 

The only downside is the fire it sets off in him, pushing him hard and fast towards the finish. But today he doesn’t mind a quick release. After last night, he might very well die if he edges himself for too long. 

Cas looks down and catches Dean’s hot-blooded stare. He smiles down at his best friend, entranced by the view of his stiff cock funneling in and out of Dean’s mouth. How Dean’s lips are wet with precome and spit, swollen red and stretched around his sex. 

Turning his gaze to the right, Cas notices Dean still has not moved his fist from the tight grip around his own cock. 

Is it possible he’s still  _ that  _ close? Fuck.

Sporting a lewd grin, Cas reaches over and swipes his fingers around the head of Dean’s cock and proceeds to suck his finger clean. “Are you planning to continue touching yourself or are you really that close?”

Dean doesn’t pull off or mumble incoherently, he looks thoughtful for a moment then tentatively resumes stroking himself. His eyes flutter closed and he moans thick around Cas’ length, the sound broken and rough.

“Fuck Dean,” Cas praises, placing his hand on the back of Dean’s head. 

He loves the feel of Dean’s unstyled hair. It’s thick and soft and spiky-straight. He threads his fingers through it and settles into a nice grip, getting ready to kick things up a notch. 

As if Dean knows, he chokes on a groan and the hand pumping his own dick stutters and stills. He’s bracing himself, Cas realizes. And fuck, it is one of the hottest things Cas has ever seen. 

Cas grinds his back teeth against the sudden onslaught of energy toiling under his skin. He mumbles something along the lines of how Dean is the greatest best friend of life and then fucks himself deep into the man’s hot wet mouth, using his hand to keep Dean in place, knowing from experience the urge to pull back can be involuntary. 

Dean does, a little. The slightest instant of pressure pushing back against his hand, but it’s there and gone in a blink. Breathing hard through his nose, Dean turns into a motionless, determined, patient partner, letting Castiel slowly bury the length of his cock in all the way to the back of Dean’s throat. 

He gags once but doesn’t try to pull away. Tears of strain flood his eyes, making the myriad of green in them watery and distorted. 

After a few seconds, Castiel withdraws to the tip and smiles as Dean sucks in a breath around his slick cock, the cool air rushing along the length of his shaft. 

Cas casts a pointed look at Dean’s white-knuckled fist around his erection, and waits. Dean huffs but obediently continues to stroke himself. 

Satisfied, Cas tightens his grasp on the back of Dean’s head in warning and then rams in between his friend’s slick lips. Dean twitches but moans in satisfaction, his freckled cheeks flaming red. 

From then on Castiel fucks Dean’s mouth almost as hard and fast as he would someone with more experience. It’s frankly stunning to see how skilled Dean is already. But he supposes it’s like anything else Dean has ever set his mind to. Subpar and average are simply not part of his personality. 

Minutes spin by, or they must. Cas has lost all concept of time. 

Dean’s wet silky mouth numbs him to everything but the sensations around him. The dim sound of the rain. The quiet smacks of Dean furiously fucking into his own fist. 

And, God in heaven; those moans. Ragged and desperate, rumbling from Dean’s chest and vibrating along the length of Cas’ swollen dick. 

He’s so close to finishing it hurts, his entire body is frozen into hard lines and surging adrenaline. A low growl rises from him, something primal and urgent. Dean responds by gasping between thrusts, sometimes whimpering with need. Hips rocking on the couch, ramming and working his cock into the confines of his fist. 

When Dean moans in two abrupt sounds, his hand leaving his cock to tug on Cas’ shirt in warning, Cas takes hold of Dean’s wrist and watches his best friend’s cock kick desperately in the air. 

“I’ll finish you off when I’m done,” he promises, sounding breathless and wrecked. 

One hand on the back of Dean’s head and the other locked around his wrist, Castiel drills Dean’s mouth in shallow speedy pumps, tension built up and rippling through him. 

The peak of climax spikes through his veins and he stutters to a full stop, dragging Dean into him, his twitching cock entirely filling Dean’s mouth. 

“Oh, shit… Dean I’m, uhhh, guhhnnfffu—” he grates the mangled syllables through his teeth, feeling the the first throb and release of his orgasm. 

Dean jerks in surprise as the first jet of come hits the back of his throat, but moans heavily, body rolling and humping air, as Cas continues to drain himself of every drop, every ache from the last twelve hours being relieved as he comes. 

Christ, it feels like an unending orgasm. Waves of pleasure crashing again and again. 

Startling Castiel, Dean grunts hard around the presence of his waning erection, his body torquing and the tendons of his wrist flexing inside Cas’ hard grip.   

Cas quickly moves his eyes to see Dean’s untouched cock kicking and slapping around from the movement of Dean’s phantom thrusts. Out of nowhere, something Cas could never have expected, is an obscenely sexy eruption of come from Dean’s cock. 

Mesmerizingly slow. 

As if the man’s release is weeping out of him, determined. No fierce explosion, no rapid spurts. His body simply overflowing with pleasure. 

“Jes-us... christ,” he stammers, watching it. 

Dean is moaning blissfully around his softened dick, neither of them bothering to move. Come spills down Dean’s shaft like melted wax around a candle and pools in the crevice of his groin where it snakes down past his sac, making Cas want to rip his boxers off and tongue Dean’s rim with the flavour of his best friend’s release lighting up his taste buds. 

When Dean finally stops rutting helplessly into the air, and his moans die down to soft contented sighs, Cas pulls out from between his lips. 

Dean rasps for air in greedy pulls, his eyes unfocused and roaming. Cas releases the grip on his wrist, letting him drop the weight of his arm back to the couch. His other hand is still diligently trying to hold his boxers away from the mess of his crotch. 

“Would you like a towel?” asks Cas, a spark in his voice he can’t help. 

Dean huffs and rolls his gaze up to meet Castiel’s. “God. Damn.”

“Yes, I agree,” he replies vehemently.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes, “I must’ve been seriously sex-deprived,” Dean comments.

“Why do you say that?” he wonders, though he knows. 

“Cause i’ve been coming like a thirteen year old boy who just discovered the wonders of masturbation. Fuck— worse than that even! I mean shit… it’s like there’s something wrong with me almost. Fooling around with you and then it’s like  _ BAM –  _ orgasm.”

He laughs. “And this is bad why?”

Dean shrugs, looks up at him with uncertainty. “I don’t know.” He pauses. “It’s not, I guess. Just weird don’t ya think?”

No shit, Cas wants to say. But he knows already. Somewhere over the last week he’s felt this thread between them. Something confusing but enthralling. A push and pull. A need. 

Instead of blurting the confusion in his own head, Cas says, “Not really. I think you… simply... _trust_ _me_ and so… for the first time you get to fool around with a guy without boundaries or trepidations. It makes you… a bit of a hair-trigger, lets say.”

Dean chuckles. “Fuckin’ seriously.” 

They share another laugh and Cas has a moment’s desire to bend over and place a chaste kiss to Dean’s red mouth, but he catches himself. 

“I’ll grab a towel for you.”

“Thanks.” Dean grievously looks down at the mess of himself and shakes his head. A few seconds later, Dean whispers, “Fuck I’m easy,” to himself once Cas is moving towards the hall. 

Quietly, Cas disagrees. Dean isn’t necessarily easy… but he’s certainly  _ something _ . 


	14. Chapter 14

For all of Cas’ taunting and dark heated looks, the guy hasn’t owned up on his tease of fucking Dean senseless and it’s all Dean can goddamn think about. _Especially_ after yesterday’s confusing BJ and Dean’s no-hands come-fountain release.

Christ. Talk about intense. When he fell asleep last night, it was to the remembered feel of Cas gripping the back of his head and fucking into his mouth, then the abrupt flood of come over his tongue and down his throat.

This is what got him off. Like a goddamn single engine rocket, slow and steady, hellbent on seeing those fucking stars. Some obscene combo of Cas’ dick in his mouth or the come or the restraint of Cas’ hand. All of it or one part of it. He doesn’t know for sure, but he fucking knows it’s what rocked his world.

He ain’t fucking stupid. So yeah, he did some googling cause he’s who he is and questions need answers. So he asked the great wide web why he gets off so hard from giving head.

But he found diddly squat. Zilch. Nothing but links about why people don’t like blow jobs and how to do it like a pro and worst of all… tales of guys who apparently can’t come from getting a knob job. And here Dean is, coming from… essentially… nothing.  

Google has rarely failed Dean… but then, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there? Like when your best friend blows a load in your mouth and you come like someone injected you with an overdose of ecstasy while riding you like a bronco.

Definitely like that, _mnnngh_ . Christ it was good. Which makes Dean wonder, despite the confusion and the curiosity and the slight, _slight_ amount of worry, what on earth would it feel like if he came while Cas was pounding him into the mattress.

Jesus on a cracker. He’d explode like an unkinked firehose. Dean gulps.

Yeah, so these are the thoughts Dean’s having while they're on the couch Sunday afternoon, watching drivel on TV when Dean caves, decision made. Too horny not to be bold, blunt, and stupid.

And curious. Good god he’s so curious. Like the time when he was six and he was hellbent on finding out why skin goes wrinkly when you take a bath. Except this curiosity can’t be solved by going to the library.

Unless Cas wants to fuck him there. In which case, Dean’s totally on board for rocking those stacks and card catalogues.

He finally huffs his pent up irritation and angrily places the jar of peanut butter and row of crackers on the coffee table (still wrongly placed after Cas kicked it out of the way yesterday afternoon).

“I wanna fuck,” he blurts, crawling over to Cas’ corner of the couch and climbing on top of him. Determined. But also so blatantly desperate. He spreads his knees over his roommate’s hips and gives him a telling nudge, flashing a quick grin.

No reaction. No response. Is Cas playing some game?

Fuck, what’s a guy gotta do to get laid around here?

Dean flicks under Cas’ chin, grabbing his attention. “You know,” Dean blasts, “this whole having a fuck buddy business makes a lot more goddamn sense when you actually fuck your buddy. Specifically, your needy, _constantly_ horny buddy.” Dean whorishly grinds in his lap. “Come on dude, I’m not about to sit here and beg.”

Or _is_ he?

Cas smirks, amused, the damn cocky bastard knows he has Dean on the hook for this wicked crazy experience unfolding between them.

“Perhaps I want you to beg,” teases Cas. “Oh Dean…. always so flustered, cleaning or talking or coding or horny. You never relax. Forget about sex for now.” Dean frowns but doesn’t interrupt. “I want you to slow your brain for once. I want to see you calm, like yesterday. Before we fooled around… And, okay, perhaps I might want you to beg. Maybe just a little.” Castiel smiles softly, looking hopeful.

Confusion scrunches Dean’s face. What the hell does Cas want him to do? And why the hell is this friends with benefits deal starting to feel like a never-ending tease.

“Seriously. Have you met me?” he throws out between them, “I don’t _do_ calm. Yesterday was… a fluke. Even the whole time we’ve sat here, I’ve been calculating the statistical probability of you fucking me before midnight.”

Cas chuckles, the sound low, making his chest move under Dean’s hands. “Let me answer that for you: it’s zero. Now, if you want to increase those odds for the near future, go over and kneel on my yoga mat.”

Yeah, no.

Dean snorts. “Dude, I get you’re all about the creative hippy love lifestyle and it’s a big reason why we’re friends, really, but bending and making stupid noises isn’t gonna just shut my brain off. Doesn’t work that way.”

“Dean,” Cas says, his voice hard. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

He clenches his jaw, tries to pretend he’s not internally writhing for it. “Don’t ask stupid questions,” he fires back.

Castiel licks his bottom lip and reaches around to grab Dean by the ass, hoisting him up a few inches. “I thought so. In that case, you’d better do as I say.”

Fucking christ, Cas is one bossy motherfucker. Fine. Whatever. “Aye-aye, Captain.” Dean climbs off his roommate and rolls his eyes on the way to the mat.

The thick pad has been unrolled and laid out under the window by the desk for years. Cas never puts it away and Dean tries not to cringe about the perceived clutter of its presence. It used to be light blue, but over time Cas bought permanent ink and turned the entire thing into a work of art. A lot of the detail reminding him of Cas’ tattoos.

If it weren’t for Dean the thing would be swimming with germs but he’s a big fan of sanitizing nearly everything.

Dean shakes his head once and gives a huff as he lowers to his knees. Sitting back on his heels, he feels one hundred and thirty percent uncomfortable. Human beings are not meant to sit in such a cramped position. How Cas does it nearly every day is a mystery.

As he kneels, waiting, he forces himself to remember why he’s letting Cas call the shots. _Sex._ Lots and lots of sex. It’s a damn good reason.

Castiel strides in from behind him. “We’re going to do something a little, umm… kinky, if you’re game.”

Kinky?

It could mean any number of things. Dean isn’t about to catalogue all the possibilities, he’d be stuck here until mid-week. Besides, it doesn’t matter. If Cas is game, so is he. Not once has he ever backed down from something, he isn’t about to do so now. Especially when it comes to doing something with his best friend in the comfort of his own apartment.

Really, how _kinky_ could this get?

“I’m game.”

Dean is nearly positive he senses Cas grin behind him, but can’t be sure. One hand presses down on Dean’s shoulder. “I want you to try and relax. I want you to focus only on your breath, nothing else. Picture it flowing in and out of your lungs, up your throat, through your nose. Imagine the path it takes. Try to expand your lungs until they can’t expand any further, when you exhale… release it through your mouth and pull your belly-button towards your spine. Keep your mind clear… only think of your breath.”

How in the hell is this kinky? Dean makes a face and tries to tip his head back. Cas’ other hand firmly palms his skull and forces him to stay facing the wall.

“No questions, no complaints.”

Fuck. Dean shifts, fighting his discomfort. He tries to think of his breath but a million things draw his focus.

“I want you to try and keep your mind clear for one whole minute. Just one minute. Follow your breath, in and out... in and out. Feel the way your chest and stomach rise and fall. And… inevitably when your mind does drift, I want you to count. Say the number in your head, clear the thought away and return your focus to your breathing. At the end of one minute, I want you to tell me how many times your mind ran off on you.”

A growing prickle of uncertainty works its way through him, making his muscles twitch. “Why?” asks Dean. A wary twinge staining his voice.

“Because… those are the number of times I am going to spank you.”

Dean instantly flushes with heat, his skin warming like someone hit him up with a thousand blowdryers. He tenses up, squirms. “You-you can’t be serious…”

Gripping a fistful of Dean’s hair, Cas wrenches his head back to stare down at him. “I said we were doing something kinky. Are you still game?”

No fucking way, he wants to say. But he doesn’t. He’s never had anyone spank him before and frankly… he’s curious. Will it hurt? Will he feel like a stupid child? Will he be embarrassed? Does he like being embarrassed? Does any of this make sense? Is he crazy?

There’s a thick, slippery silence on the air. Ready to fall one way or another.

Dean licks his lips, swallows and takes shallow breaths. He opens his mouth, a crease forming between his brows, confusion making his gaze restless. He looks around the room, searching for answers he knows aren’t among the furniture.

Mouth gone dry, Dean feels a strange pull from deep inside. Similar to what he felt yesterday when Cas dominated the entire room with his presence, standing above Dean, rock-hard dick within lickable distance, his sharp blue eyes smoldering down at Dean like he wanted to eat him.

Then and now, the same feeling. Pulling him in. His body feverish. Heart pounding. But why?

It’s not that he necessarily _wants_ Cas to spank him, that seems immaterial. It’s more as though he can’t comprehend saying no. He also kind of dislikes Cas giving him the choice, choices come with thinking and thinking too much is why he’s kneeled on the frigging mat in the first place, isn’t it?

Holding his breath, Dean nods. In a quiet reply, Cas scratches the top of his head, making a shiver run down his neck and spread across his shoulders.

“Very good,” Cas says.

Accepting what he knows is going to happen, Dean fears his thoughts will run rampant worse than if he hadn’t known. His entire body tenses for a second or two, and then he just sinks into himself, releasing a long shuddery breath. Giving in to the acceptance of it, grounding himself to the feel of his best friend’s touch.

It’s easier than he expected. The giving in part.

Cas’ fingers make inroads through his unstyled, Sunday-morning hair, calming him and he wonders when the minute’s gonna start because he’s still thinking—isn’t even sure he’s capable of stopping.

He’s about to ask when Cas trails his hand down the back of Dean’s head and takes hold of the back of his neck, not too softly either.

“Ready?” Dean clenches his jaw and waits, grounding himself to the mat. “The minute starts... _now_.”

Determined, Dean steers all his attention to the pattern of his breath. He feels and listens to it, tries to follow how it moves and how it feels. Pictures the abstract process of blood oxygenation. As he expands his chest, thick and full the way Cas asked him to, he realizes how _good_ it feels. Like he's never taken such a true breath before. Like he’s been gradually starved of oxygen his whole life.

Fuck, Cas is awesome. Always knowing exactly what he–

Dean bites the inside of his cheek. _One._

Taking another breath, he pushes back against his intrusive mind. He inhales, feeling the relief, closing his eyes to it. With every exhale he draws his stomach inward, trying to pull his belly-button backward but somehow the motion makes his cock twitch and a sharp image of Cas’ gorgeous mouth wrapped around his swollen sex comes storming into his conscious mind.

Fuckkk. _Two._

Has it been a minute yet? _Three._

Another breath, rapidly this time. In and out. His cock flexes and swells. Sixty seconds has never felt this long; Cas is obviously lying. _Four._

Maybe after this they’ll finally have sex. Maybe if Dean can manage to shut his fucking head off for once, Cas will— Goddammit! _Five._

Time drags by. Like molasses. Like Dean’s leisurely comeshot yesterday.

Dean’s breaths are coming faster and less controlled, his hips feel tense and his knees are starting to hurt and everything is coalescing inside his mind and he can’t find the rhythm of his breath no matter how hard he tries.

Suddenly he’s panting, clawing at the oxygen as if it’s fighting him tooth and nail. Dean can feel his back teeth grinding, making his jaw hurt. His heartbeat pounds in his swollen dick and he feels dizzy, trying his best to count.

As he hits number seventeen, he can’t help but bite his lip and his mind explodes with the knowledge of what Cas will do once the minute is up and _holy christ_ is the minute not up already?!

Eighteen comes and goes, as does nineteen. and just before he’s about to breathe and whisper twenty to himself, Cas’ thick, gritty voice rises to his ears, “Minute’s up.”

Dean’s chest rises and falls in a two-second pattern, irritatingly quick. No doubt shorting his respiratory system some precious juice but good god he can’t remember how to slow it down. Using his hold again on Dean’s short hair, Cas tips his head back, gently this time.

Dean’s mouth drops open, his cock aches and jerks in his pants.

“How many times?” asks Cas.

For a second, a nanosecond, he contemplates lying but Cas has this look about him. Dean can’t put his finger on it but he knows if he wants this situation to keep going, he’s gotta be up front. Whatever power Cas has over him, Dean’s never felt anything like it.

He sure as hell doesn’t want to piss it off.

For another second, he wonders why. He wonders if it’s just that he hasn’t had full-on sex in a long time. And he’s _never_ had sex with anyone he’s actually comfortable with, anyone he actually trusts. Something’s different in all of this, compared to anything he’s ever experienced, and for the first time in his life he’s stumped.

Maybe scared. Not of Cas… but himself. What it means.

“Dean?”

Meeting Cas’ sharp blue eyes, he licks his sahara dry lips and rasps out the number, “Nineteen.”

Cas smiles, releasing his grip to squeeze a little massage into the back of Dean’s neck. “Impressive. I thought it would be higher.”

With a scoff, Dean shrugs, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, all the while his brain is screaming over the impending act of Cas—his fucking best friend and roommate _and_ business partner—pulling his pants down and legitimately smacking his ass red.

_All_ for the egregious act of _thinking_.

Well, okay. Not necessarily for thinking but for the inability to not think, the sheer impossibility of ‘Dean’ and ‘Relaxation’ coexisting in the same universe.

“Don’t say a word,” instructs Cas. “I want you to get up, take off your clothes and go to your room.”

The command not to speak nags at him, his tongue wrestles behind his teeth and he fights against his own will. Cas gives him a hard squeeze on the back of his neck and it cuts off the urge to ramble needlessly about where this is going.

Get a grip, Winchester. It’s just someone’s palm on your skin, you goddamn pansy. Repeatedly, mind you. But still, can’t be that bad.

Or fuck.. that good?

Swallowing his nerves, Dean rises off the mat without a word. He shucks his pants and underwear, pulls his t-shirt over his head and leaves them folded on the island because he’s not the ‘throw one’s clothes everywhere’ kind of guy.

In his room, Cas standing behind him, Dean waits to be told what to do.

It’s the strangest relief. To just stand there, immobile and vulnerable, knowing he only needs to listen and do. Knowing Cas would never ask of him something he couldn’t handle, or wouldn’t want. Knowing without ever pouring over the thought, that Cas is in control of what comes next and for some reason, that’s okay. In fact, it’s more than okay… it’s preferred. It’s a craving.

Huh.

What an interesting concept. Something to dwell on later, he supposes.

“Lay on the bed, on your front and push your arms under the pillows, grab the edge of the mattress and don't let go.”

Dean feels a rush of anticipation race through his veins. He does as he’s told, finding his spot on the bed and smelling the scent of himself against the fabric.

Despite the pressure and heat pooling in his groin, he’s calmer in that moment than he has any logical right to be. There a few things Dean doesn’t understand, but this feeling… this loose mental state is something new.

He wants more of it.

*     *     *

Cas has never been more aroused in his life. It makes for a sharp presence in his body, heightening every single one of his senses.

Watching Dean listen to every word he says, to see the man’s brain work at a thought only to forcibly let it slide away is nothing short of a miracle. Taking care of Dean in this strange, peculiar way is intoxicating.

Dean tenses for a second and then climbs onto the bed and lays himself out, ripples of uncertainty or anticipation working down the muscular plane of his back.

Without a word, Cas moves onto his friend’s bed and sits beside Dean’s hip. His fingers trace a line down his side, watching him flinch and relax. Castiel does it a couple more times, letting his touch sweep over Dean in soft patterns, keeps this up until his best friend no longer tenses on contact, no longer worried about the anticipation of what’s coming next.

Which is, of course, precisely when Cas decides to dish out the first slap.

His hand comes down hard and fast on Dean’s fleshy backside, a crack in the room, dragging a sharp hiss from the man. His body tenses but he says nothing.

Cas unleashes the next one, harder, Dean’s ass blooming a rosy pink. It’s beautiful, but Cas realizes he needs to see Dean’s face.

Reaching over, he threads his fingers into Dean’s spiky-soft hair and feels the dampness and heat on his scalp. “Face me.”

After a couple seconds, Dean pushes up with his arms to turn his head, laying his left cheek to the mattress, green eyes looking towards Cas at an angle.

“Very good,” Cas tells him.

At the sound of his voice, Dean seems to sink into himself. Resettled in his position, content. In that moment, Castiel brings his palm down again. The crack of skin-on-skin bursting into the room. Dean flinches, a frown distorting his features, breath ghosting out between his lips.

Cas raises his hand, letting Dean see his build up. Watching the anticipation spark in his eyes. Castiel rushes down only to stop within an inch of touching Dean’s skin. A violent shake shudders through Dean’s body and he sucks in a sloppy breath, eyes flaring wide, staring up at Cas with total and complete trust. A shade of wonder too, and the most beautiful note of compliance.

He’s wholly and completely here for this, drowning in the moment. Dean has surrendered his mind and body, and Cas is shaken by the notion.

Fighting off the strange emotions itching under his skin, Castiel starts up again. Faster. The next two hits come down quick, his palm stinging with each one. Dean’s ass is red-hot, the flesh brighter than the blush on Dean’s cheeks.

After the next three, up to eight now with eleven to go, Dean murmurs a low sound in his throat. First a whimper, then a moan. He squirms a little between each hit, spreading his legs or pulling them together, curling his toes, subtly arching his back.

Castiel has to fight his desire to flip Dean over, push his knees back, and take his virginity right here and now. Some primal need to stake a claim on Dean has risen from deep in his chest, like nothing he’s ever felt before.  

Well not quite. He felt it yesterday in spades. Now he’s evidently addicted.

Dean’s entire body jerks with each burning slap, soft cries of shock and growing discomfort reaching Cas’ ears. It would concern him if not for the mingled in moans and the subtle thrust of Dean’s hips into the bed.

Taking a break, Castiel reaches up and strokes Dean’s face, runs his stinging fingers through Dean’s damp, messy hair. Then he palms all the way down Dean’s spine and grabs his ass, loving the gravely moan that breaks up the quiet.

Castiel adjusts his position, trying not to put pressure on his throbbing erection, and unleashes a few more increasingly hard hits, watching Dean transition from squirming against them to falling unbelievable still. When Cas tips his head to the side and glances down to meet Dean’s gaze, he finds it unfocused, beautifully distant. His friend’s green eyes, while open to the world, stare off into the distance, face flushed red, handsome features still, lips parted.  

Out of nowhere, Cas understands it. All of it. Wanting to take care of Dean, seeing the way Dean reacts to him. Finally clueing in to why he likes bossing Dean around and why Dean seems to crave it.  

Something more than sex has unravelled between them. A type of thing Castiel doesn’t quite understand but isn’t entirely naive enough to misinterpret. Their friendship has slid from normal to one with added benefits, and finally... to one with very particular dynamics.

Hmm. This he did _not_ expect.

Dean has always been a man full of inner chaos. Constant worry and calculation. But if Cas makes demands of him like this… he takes it. He reaches for it, allows it guide him. It’s a breathtaking, powerful thing to witness.

And that’s the idea isn’t it? Power… or something along those lines.

To be the one to do this to Dean, to bring him down. To break him apart. Watch the rapid fire brain of a man with an astonishing IQ go completely blank, sinking into a plane of existence he may not understand but responds to with such unmasked ease.   

It’s humbling, terrifying. Castiel falls still.

Dean’s eyes flutter, not closing but registering the interruption. Cas shushes him and doles out the remaining smacks to Dean’s ass, bringing his palm down harder and faster than all the others. Dean moans through it, dazed green eyes rolling back, hips driving into the mattress with abandon.

Before Dean has a chance to regain his thoughts, Castiel reaches down and slides his finger into Dean’s slackened mouth.

“Suck my fingers,” he tells his friend.

Dean swallows at first, his wet silky mouth tightening around Cas’ digits before he suckles at them in a trance as if he's hardly aware of what he's doing at all. Cas gradually withdraws and smiles when a frown pulls a crease between Dean’s brows.

It won’t be there for long, not if Cas can help it.

Dean’s always wanted to explore more with men but never felt comfortable enough to let them into his body. Cas has permission, has Dean’s trust, and he's going to give Dean exactly what he wants, or a taste at least.

Bending down for a moment, he makes sure Dean looks directly at him. Tries to gauge his current cognizance. “I’m going to finger you, is that okay?”

Dean’s eyes flare with interest, he blinks slowly and nods against the bed. It seems he’s unable to speak. Holding Dean’s attention in a steady locked gaze, Cas reaches back with his slicked fingers and pushes them between the burning hot flesh of Dean’s ass.

His best friend parts his mouth wider, looking at Cas with a world of innocence that is so at odds with his normal personality.

“Relax…” Cas whispers.

Moving slow, Cas presses the pad of his finger against the tight wrinkled entrance. Dean stares at him, holding his breath. It’s not ideal and if Cas were planning to fuck him, he’d make sure Dean was more relaxed but he can see the anticipation coursing through him, and knows Dean couldn’t relax even if he was dosed with a mild tranquilizer.

Using the spit on his finger, he nudges Dean’s rim, spreading the slick around it. Making circles, pushing closer to the centre each time. Dean starts to huff these thready little exhales, shaky and nervous.

Knowing emotion is driving him now, Cas scoots closer and lets his nose brush Dean’s, watching his friend’s eyes from barely two inches away.

“Ca-as?” Dean murmurs, biting his lip and letting it out again.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Dean’s expression flashes with panic and he shakes his head, reaching out with one hand to grab a fistful of Cas’ shirt, keeping him close. Cas smiles to reassure him, lets a couple more of his digits finger along the damp crease, feeling Dean reflexively tense and let go. Over and over again.

Keeping Dean’s eyes on him, Castiel tucks the tip of his finger inward, working at the clenching hole. He pushes and pushes, shifting back and forth, moving in a little more with each motion. He keeps going until the warm smooth grip of Dean’s rim is tight around his nail. Even just this, arguably the smallest of breaches, Dean seems utterly lost.

Cas knew his best friend had never touched himself. Dean always joked it was too awkward to reach around, that he preferred a no muss no fuss jack off routine. No toys or anything other than his fist flying up and down his dick.

Maybe this experience will trigger new solo experiences for Dean. Maybe as he fingers himself some other time, Cas will be on his mind.

Realizing he needs more spit, Castiel pulls out. Dean surprises him with a desperate whine, his breath ghosting across Cas’ lips. Shushing his friend, Cas reaches to his mouth and sucks his middle finger quickly. In no time, he’s back between Dean’s feverish skin, working his finger in again. This time he doesn’t stop.

Casting a significant look at his roommate, he says, “I’m going to push in further now.”

Dean’s unfocused eyes roll back a little, eyelids fluttering as Cas works into his best friend. Castiel’s breath catches at the feel of Dean’s intimate heat enveloping his finger. Crossing this minor boundary with Dean feels monumental, far more than it should.

It might have to do with the unsteady thundering of his heart. He ignores what it means.

When he pulls back, Dean clenches around him. For several seconds Cas slides in and withdraws, going a little deeper each time.

Dean hums as he’s worked open, eyes restless, attention scattered. In slow, sensual thrusts of his hand, Castiel fingers Dean with one finger, then two—gently—without lube he won’t do more. Knowing he’s limited, he pushes in and twists at the wrist, feeling the hot inner walls of Dean’s body.

Beyond the shadow between them, Cas studies the sensations rushing across Dean’s features. God in heaven, he wants to kiss Dean. _Badly_. But he knows it’s off limits. Of course… there are other ways he could kiss Dean, other places he could enter Dean with his tongue. Mmngh, his mouth salivates, imagines himself spreading Dean’s spank-ruddy cheeks apart and licking open his untouched hole.

But this time, Castiel will make Dean come on his fingers. Or try to.

It may not work. Not every man can finish from prostate stimulation alone, but he suspects Dean is likely to be sensitive. If only for the reason it’s his first time being penetrated. And frankly, after yesterday… he’d probably be more surprised if Dean _didn’t_ come from this.

Castiel guides his fingers around until he nudges up against the spot inside Dean he’s looking for. Dean jerks and blinks, breathing the word, “ _Fuck_ ,” in a barely audible sound.

In building motions, his hand working against Dean’s rear, Castiel rubs and kneads gently at Dean’s prostate, watching him start to shudder. Bottom lip trembling, eyes watering.

“Whenever you’re ready… I want you to come.”

Dean swallows loudly and sucks back a breath only to hold it in and bear down on Cas’ fingers, the pressure around Cas so intense he can’t help but wonder how it would feel if it was his cock buried inside Dean.

Picking up his pace, Castiel thrusts his fingers into Dean, massaging circles with every invasion. He works Dean harder and harder until Dean is moaning so loud it sounds like crying, warbled and thick and wanton.

“Let it happen. I know it feels a little weird the first time… it’s okay.” The first time Cas had his prostate worked, he was certain he’d piss himself… instead he had one of the best orgasms of his life. Leaving him paralyzed in bliss.

He can’t wait to make the same happen for Dean.

Cas slams into him, two fingers shoving in and his fist thumping against Dean’s flesh. Castiel works into him with relentless determination, needing to make Dean come. He drags the pads of his fingers in shallow rocking motions, massaging that one heavenly spot.

“Cas–” Dean chokes out his name, a warning, a plea.

Spreading his fingers, Castiel pulls back and then slams into Dean, over and over again. With each thrust, he bumps and rubs the bundle of nerves buried inside Dean. This is what does Dean in, pleasure attacking him fast and hard, has him thrashing with frustration, trying to tense his way to climax. His teeth bite down, hips grinding, eyes wide and fixed on Castiel like he's the answer to every question.

“Relax every muscle. Now, Dean,” Castiel demands.

Dean chokes on a groan and all at once his entire body goes slack of tension, the wet warmth of his ass loosening around Cas’ fingers.

“I-I don’t… I… ahh, fuuuckkkk,” stutters Dean, tears glossing over his vision.

Castiel locks eyes with Dean and vibrates his fingers inside, a rapid side-to-side action. Making Dean feel him deeply, his touch radiating.

Dean groans, brokenly, “Aaahhhhh, uhn god… fuck… ahh, ahh.”

Every rough exultation that follows is a ragged whimper. His whole body seizing up into hard tense lines. Every muscle bulging up, tattoos standing out sharply under all of the beaded sweat on his skin.

Castiel feels his friend’s release radiate through his ass, the hot channel contracting in repetitions around his fingers. His entire body convulsing. As the tension drains, Dean shakes through the remaining waves of his orgasm. Broken gasps turning to quiet moans.

As Dean comes down from the high, his bright green eyes are stunned and lazy at the same time, he doesn’t know where to look or how to focus.

“It’s okay,” Cas soothes, guiding his palm over Dean’s forehead and pushing back his damp hair. “You were perfect. Amazing.” He continues petting Dean, praising him, watching the man’s eyes flutter and close, longer each time around. “Close your eyes, follow your breath.”

Dean obediently shuts his eyes, his back expanding with long slow steady breaths. It’s the most calm Cas has ever seen his best friend. He strokes Dean’s skin, running his fingers down the lines of his body, plays with his hair. All the while murmuring comforts to him in the growing silence.

When a low snore grumbles from Dean’s slack mouth, Castiel smiles with relief that feels like an overinflated balloon. He’s soaring. Overwhelmed.

But the smile is shaky, quickly wiped away by emotions he hoped to keep buried.

Denial, at this point… is laughable. There’s nothing he wants more than to be everything Dean could possibly need or ever want. Nibbling on his bottom lip, Castiel watches his best friend sleep. All the wrinkles of tension in the man’s forehead smoothed out, his expression one of relaxed content.

Hope stubbornly flares behind Castiel’s ribcage. For something more… more than whatever this is.

It’s useless really though, to hope for a relationship Dean has no plans to give. Present or future. But what they have here, what this friends with benefits situation has morphed into, has become a relationship in and of itself.

Neither of them quite understanding or expecting it. _Definitely_ not expecting it.

A new thing to explore, in a tread lightly manner. A sure test of his ability to separate lust from everything else he’s feeling.

Castiel stretches close, not daring to kiss Dean. Even if it would be a secret lost in the moment. He won’t. Dean did not give him permission for that. Minding the rules they’ve set, he brushes his nose with Dean’s, feels the hot flow of the man’s sleeping breath and forces himself to back away.

Staring at Dean one last time, he bites into his lip so hard it hurts.

As he’s walking out the door, moving to the kitchen to get a glass of a water for when his friend wakes and a cloth to clean Dean up, a very certain truth barrels into his mind.

He’s in love with Dean.

Has probably _always_ been in love with Dean.

How could he have ever assumed what he felt was anything less? And now? Having Dean’s subservient trust in his hands is a feeling like nothing else. A power he’s not sure he deserves.  

But lord in heaven, he wants it.


	15. Chapter 15

Once every couple months, Dean forces himself to wine and dine some of their bigger clients. One city councillor, a couple major consulting firms, one photographer. 

Cas has many talents, but schmoozing clients ain’t one of them. Poor guy is always far too intense, too quiet when he’s deep in his character-assessing mode. For the sake of the business, Dean’s always stepped up to bat on this front. Sometimes he recruits Charlie to tag along but she’s gone to some Trivia Game night, leaving him solo. 

This is where he finds himself on Tuesday night, at a small classy restaurant sitting across from the owner of Coles photography studio. This is not the first time Dean and Ryan Cole have met up for drinks and a bite to eat. They’ve already breezed through some regular topics. Sports, sports, and generally more sports. The occasional personal anecdote scattered in here and there. 

Dean doesn’t dislike the guy necessarily, but he’s always a little more on guard around him than other clients. 

Ryan is single and has a reputation for being shamelessly promiscuous. Has flirted with Dean on several occasions. It never used to bother him. Hell, getting hit on by men and women alike is something Dean’s dealt with since he was maybe fifteen? 

Unfortunately for Ryan, Dean isn't the type to mix business and pleasure. 

Or at least, he  _ used _ to be. 

Clearly, that rule grew wings and flew right the fuck out the window. Getting it on with your best friend is one thing, but crossing the line with a business partner? Man, what the hell had he been thinking. 

Oh right, he wasn’t. Isn’t that the irony of it. When he doesn't think, he opens himself up for doing very stupid things. 

But, also, when he doesn't think…

Fucking unfettered bliss. Wild and raw. Like no other peace he’s ever known. 

Even as he thinks about it, pretending to listen to whatever Ryan is blabbering on about, Dean remembers how he spent Sunday with his roommate in vivid detail. 

No experience of his life compares. For the first time in… ever… Dean felt free. Every annoying thought normally cluttering his mind wiped clean as if Cas had squeegeed his brain. Not only had it felt good, but he knew without a doubt in his mind he could surrender himself completely to Cas’ will—whatever Cas wanted—and he’d be taken care of. Be given whatever it is he never knew he needed. 

It’s fucked, is what it is. 

“… _ Are you alright?” _

Dean glances up, sees the concerned look on Ryan’s face and realizes he’s been holding the wood coaster in a tight grip and tapping it incessantly on the table for god only knows how long. 

“Sorry,” he blushes, embarrassed by the erotic direction of his thoughts. 

Man he wishes Cas were here. 

But that’s wrong. Because they aren’t dating and Cas is simply his best bud, and also… he supposes, the guy who makes him come so hard he sees Jesus. Or whatever. 

“Something on your mind?”

Dean laughs. “Always.” Now, with exceptions. 

Sensing an opportunity, reading everything so totally wrong, Ryan leans forward and hits Dean up with a flirty leer. “I could distract you sometime if you want.”

Dean scoffs, forcing himself to smile. “Answer’s the same as before,” he says cooly. 

With a shrug, Ryan links his fingers and folds his arms on the table. The chatter around them dims and whirs, like a metropolitan heartbeat. “Doesn’t have to be a date,” he suggests. “We could just… head back to my place, have a little tryst and be on our way.”

Just like that, huh. “Oh yeah,” Dean says blandly, not buying what he’s selling, “just a quick cab ride and then get down to business, right.”

Ryan catches on that he’s being sarcastic or bitter. Maybe both. “Hey, I’m just fine with rejection. It’s just… you kinda look like you need it,” Ryan remarks, fighting a laugh. “No offence.”

No shit. “Maybe I do… but I don't get my jollies from clients, Ryan. And you already know that.”

“Too bad,” he replies, leaning back and wiping all insinuations from his face. 

Not surprisingly, they part ways after their drinks are done and Dean reconsiders whether he should continue schmoozing the clients in this particular way. Maybe he can just send them gift cards to Starbucks from now on. 

Everybody likes caffeine and diabetes, right? 

On his way home, Dean starts to overthink Ryan’s invitation. Shocker, right? It was so damn casual, easy. Careless and thoughtless. Which,  _ really _ , should piss him off. But at the same time, he can’t help but wonder why a relative stranger is ready to haul Dean up to his place and give it to him quick and dirty when Cas, his own best friend, has been stalling and hedging. 

Is it possible Cas doesn't want to? 

No… no… not after that little word poem he fucked Dean with at the bar. And then what happened on the weekend. Cause damn. No way Cas doesn’t want it as bad as he does. When it comes to sex, they’ve got shit figured out. 

Maybe Cas just isn't sure about it because it would be Dean’s first time. 

The whole giant significant claiming of his ass virginity.  Big fucking deal. Having one part of Cas’ body inserted into a part of Dean’s body is nothing but happy friction. Physics and nerve-endings and, with any luck, one really awesome orgasm. 

Or several maybe. Dean’s young enough, his rebound time is still decent. 

Plus, it’s not like Dean’s going to get a dick in the butt and spontaneously want to get married and have babies and demand declarations of love. ‘Cause really, he’s very certain putting anything in the rectum does not lead to a personality shift nor babies. 

Definitely not babies. That one he knows for sure. 

All this is rational and very easy to understand. So the question remains: Why the fuck doesn’t Cas want to stick it to him? 

By the time Dean gets home, he feels like his dick has been affronted. Or maybe his ass. Probably both. Definitely both. 

Basically, his entire lower body is annoyed at being denied what it’s been promised. He signed on to this fuck buddy deal for a number of reasons, efficiency being one of them. Curiosity a major driving point too. 

And, ya know,  _ actual sex _ . 

He’s all ramped up to logically argue his way into getting Cas to do him when he realizes the apartment is empty and Cas isn’t there. 

Fuck. 

Growling his frustration, he marches over to the computer to distract himself with either porn or work, he hasn’t quite decided. Sadly, he's denied both. When he fires up the screen, he sees his comp is going through a scheduled update and backup sequence. While he could, theoretically, use it during this… it’s not recommended. He leaves it be. 

God, he’s horny. An itch crawling under his skin. 

Sitting in his office chair, Dean bounces his knees and joggles his thighs together and apart in a hyper speed motion. He looks behind himself at the yoga mat. Swallows tightly, remembering. 

Yeah, Cas needs to fuck him. 

The potency of the need has him thinking of what it’s like to be starved of oxygen. When the hell did his best friend become the air he needs to live? Really though—what the hell?

Surely, no man has ever died from their best friend being a cock block. But, he thinks, it’s not entirely out of the realm of possibility. Extreme pent-up arousal aided by an intense red-meat heavy diet means a heart attack is really just one fantasy away from becoming reality.

He should probably eat more salads. Knowing the statistics and everything. Heart disease, bla, bla, bla. 

Great. Now he’s thinking of dying  _ and _ sex. Not wanting to inadvertently create any very wrong associations, he decides he needs to overload his brain with porn. Immediately. Unable to use his computer, he ducks into Cas’ tornado-decorated bedroom and finds the man’s laptop under a sweater on his desk below the window. 

Yeah, yeah, he knows Cas has a thing with privacy and hijacking the man’s laptop is off limits, but this is an emergency. 

Without thinking, Dean raises the discarded sweater to his face and takes a sniff. He tells himself he's checking to see how dirty it is and debates whether he should just start doing both their laundry together but really… he’s just smelling it. Savouring it. Not because he’s being infected by romance or feelings but because his body now associates Cas’ scent with stellar orgasms. 

“Mnngh.” He shakes his head, taking in the familiar scent of Cas’ hippie forest-scented deodorant and vaguely warm but soft spice-scented cologne. His cock gives an interested twitch, the fucking pavlovian nerve of it. “He’s not here, stupid,” he reminds his dick. 

Taking one last non-creepy sniff, he deftly tosses the shirt behind him and hears it swoosh into the empty hamper. All of Cas’ other dirty clothes lay on the floor. Why the guy even owns a hamper is a mystery. 

Dean picks up the laptop and carries it back to his own room where it’s clean and neat. The way living quarters should be. 

On his bed, with a hand towel next to him for cleanup because tissues are “incredibly wasteful, Dean.” Normally he would’ve argued the point, but seeing as he’s been going through a daily whack-off spree, he decided to save some trees. Hand towel it is. 

Pulling up the browser, he’s too eager to remember to switch to private and when he double-clicks the search, an automatic dropdown showing suggestions as well as Bookmarks and History pops up. 

Odd. Usually Cas clears his—

“What the fuck?”

There are a number previous links listed for a website Dean’s only ever heard Charlie talk about. A website he sure as shit did not expect to find on Cas’ computer. What in the hell?

Cas reads fanfiction? For real!?

Oh, this is just  _ too _ good. Dean can’t help but click on one of the stories, needing to know what kind of trekkie fiction the man’s reading so he can totally make fun of him later. It’s no secret Cas likes the idea of Spock and Kirk together—heck, he’s lectured Dean about it before. 

The story is called, “Between Words,” and Dean skims the opening stuff because it looks like a ton of links and he needs to get to some real text here. But then he sees an author’s note. 

_ Update: Sorry guys I likely won't be updating this any time soon… my best friend and I. We kinda… um… started fooling around.  So, needless to say, writing about fucking my friend has sort of taken a backseat to you know… literally fucking best friend. I swear I’ll get to comments as soon as I can.  _

Dean’s mouth is gaping like a moron. No, no, no. This has got to be coincidence. Dean scrolls up a little. The author’s name is, “Tattoosandbees” and Dean just  _ knows _ . This is Castiel. Writing. About them. About  _ him.  _

And sex. 

Well.  _ Obviously _ he needs to read this immediately. Privacy can get fucked. 

Dean’s always been an avid reader and therefore a fast one and he’s already six chapters in an hour later and it’s not even late. He has no idea where Cas is but he’s already peeled his eyes away from the exquisitely crafted writing of near constant porn for the sole purpose of checking Cas’ location through the GPS app on his phone. 

Seeing that his best friend is with Meg lessens the worry and Dean knows he has some time. He sets an alert to tell him when Cas leaves the tattoo shop. 

Without wasting a second more, he dives right back into the story, gaining another three chapters before the ding goes off on his phone. 

Shit. 

Cas will be back soon. And after reading about all the things Cas has obviously spent  _ significant  _ time daydreaming about, Dean is so hard he feels like he could break his fucking dick in half if he moved wrong. 

Christ, he feels like he’s got a superman cock going on right now. It’s as if the words on the screen have been edging him for two hours straight and—Dean shifts a little—and yeah, there’s a serious amount of precome smeared in his boxers. God, he’s a mess. 

Flushed, overheated, hard, leaking in his underwear like a pre-teen. Grinding his teeth, he ignores the situation in his pants. 

What amazes him, over and above the staggering shock of how words can impact his arousal, is that the writing isn’t one-dimensional smut, serving a single purpose of porn related through a medium of text. 

Somehow it’s got context and presence. Depth. 

Every word makes Dean  _ feel. _ Stirring the same reactions in him as those written out on the page. The current scene he’s into has Cas fucking him on the couch. It’s from Dean’s point-of-view. Facedown on the cushion, Cas’ hands gripping him hard, using his body as leverage for every hip-crashing thrust. 

The way Cas writes from Dean’s point-of-view is intimate in a way he can’t even comprehend. As though Cas is a part of him. It’s a shock to realize how well Cas knows his mind. It makes the written pleasure more potent. 

Every sentence, every painfully clear description of Cas taking Dean apart makes his head spin. Fuck, he wants it all. 

All his nerves are fritzed out from prolonged self-inflicted arousal without release. Body so tense it nearly hurts. 

As he pours over the words, his blood grows hotter and hotter. Sweat beads at the nape of his neck and he finds himself aching for it so fervently he needs to reach down and palm himself to relieve the tension.

Jesus Christ, Cas can’t find him like this. Flushed and watery-eyed with desperation. 

First things first. He  _ needs  _ to know where this story is going, as he’s starting to get a little panicky over the tender way Castiel touches and holds Dean in this story. And kisses him. Fuck… those delicious kisses. They sound awesome. 

Alright. Back on task, Dean scrolls up to see the menu for chapters and goes to the last one. 

He skims the words because he can’t afford the time it would take to read them one at a time. There’s a lot of talking, not much sex like before. It’s flirty, sweet. There’s a different pattern here, it’s like all the other things Cas wrote from a very lusty place. Now there’s far more depth and discourse and it makes Dean unsure about a million different things. 

It’s— _ fuck _ . It’s a goddamn relationship. 

Staring into space having a mild panic attack, he freezes until he remembers his phone and starts freaking out for a whole other reason. Dean checks the GPS and sees Cas is only a block away. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

Quickly, he deletes the history for the last few hours, exits the browser, snaps the lid shut and scurries back to Cas’ room to place the computer back on his desk. Not one to miss detail, he scoops the sweater from Cas’ hamper and places it on the computer, adjusts it a couple times until it looks unintentionally discarded.  

By the time Cas walks into the apartment, Dean is scouring the fridge for a snack trying not to hyperventilate from a toxic mix of raging arousal and badly knotted anxiety. 

 


	16. Chapter 16

Cas steps into the apartment, takes one look at his best friend, and  _ knows _ there's something off. Having just spent a few hours with Meg tweaking his ankle piece and chatting with her about his roommate and what they’ve been doing, he’s primed to notice anything out of the ordinary. 

Dean is hyper. Not his normal overactive can’t relax persona but edgy and wound up. The way he gets when he’s nervous; a markedly rare occurrence. 

It reminds Castiel that Dean was supposed to have dinner with Ryan tonight. He growls internally. Ryan... the irritating, sleazy photographer who’s always rubbed Castiel the wrong way. This urbanite douche creep who looks at Dean with  _ very _ dishonourable intentions. Castiel keyed the man’s car last year.

The bout of vandalism had no basis in jealousy. Okay, minimal influence at best. 

“What happened?” he asks, his words taut. “You look anxious and flushed.”

Dean jerks his head up from perusing the fridge, a deer caught in headlights. “What do you mean,  _ what happened?  _ Nothing happened.”

Hmm. Dean is never this flustered. Or guilty-looking. “Ryan came onto you didn’t he?” Anger boils under his skin. “If that slimy cockroach touched you without consent I will happily draw giant disease-ridden dicks all over his fucking Mercedes.”

In the work of a second, Dean relaxes. A broad smile lighting up his face. “As  _ badly _ as I would love to see that, no. He didn’t touch me or anything like that. Although,” Dean makes a face, “he did, uh, invite back to his place for a quickie.”

Keying the man’s car was clearly not a big enough deterrent. “Fucking nerve. I hate that he’s our client. He’s an ass.”

Dean perks his eyebrows in agreement, but remains quiet on the subject. “How was your doodle session with Meg?”

“How’d you know I was with Meg?”

Flashing a look to his phone, Dean says, “GPS. Ever heard of it? Been around for a bit.”

Castiel frowns and gives his friend a dull stare. “And why exactly were you tracking me?”

There’s a definite beat before Dean replies. “I worry.”

“Right,” says Cas, not entirely believing him. And then something hits him, a follow-up question he hadn’t asked. “Wait… you didn’t…” Searching for the words, he watches Dean’s eyes widen, worry building in the man’s features. “You didn’t... sleep with him did you? When he asked you up to his place… you said no right?”

“Why?” Dean edges out. “Jealous?”

“No, but I detest him.”

“Yeah well,” Dean mutters under his breath, “at least he's willing to put out.”

The comment is unexpected. Not to mention egregiously false. “Are you implying I am not?”

Dean makes a face as he takes leftover mac n cheese from the fridge. He pops the lid and sticks it in the microwave. “Kinda, yeah.”

It’s sweet to see Dean frustrated. But also bothersome to know he may have contemplated going home with another man. Castiel makes a show of pouting, mocking his friend. He walks into the kitchen and crowds into Dean’s space, watching the nervous eager spark light off in his green eyes. 

“Shall I remind you of the two orgasms you received this weekend? Three if you want to count friday.”

Dean looks down, fiddles behind himself with the tea towel hanging from the stove. “You know what I mean, Cas.”

“Afraid I don’t,” he says, being purposefully evasive. It’s a fascinating experience to see Dean, a man so always in control, revert to the use of anxious gestures. “You should be clearer.”

“I know what you’re doing,” accuses Dean, glancing up to peg Cas with a heated look. “You want this to… you want me to, to uh…” Dean loses track of his words. His jaw flexes and his focus scatters before turning back. 

This is clearly more than Dean being nervous about taking things to the next level. Castiel’s afraid to ask what it could be. Pushing away the worry, he reaches forward and places his hand on Dean’s stomach, dragging it upward, smiling to himself when Dean automatically takes a breath. “Try again,” he says gently. “What exactly do you want?”

A thousand different emotions flicker across Dean’s expression, and all of a sudden it’s like a traffic light flashes green in his mind. Dean shoves off from the stove and throws his arms around Cas’ shoulders, dragging their bodies flush together. 

Close enough to kiss. 

They don’t, of course. But they feel it, a hovering possibility in the space between them. Daring them towards it. 

When Dean finally breaks the silence, his voice is wrecked. “I want you to fuck me,” he says breathlessly. Dean reverts to the man he was on Sunday, when he laid out on his bed and let Cas finger him to a blissful oblivion. Shameless, desperate, and trusting. 

Dean meets his eyes, brows slanted sadly. He grabs at the back of Cas’ sweater and tries to force them closer. Their lips dangerously close. Almost grazing. 

His best friend’s sudden intensity is nerve-wracking, shifting the dynamic to something it wasn’t ever supposed to be. All of this is becoming something he’s not sure either of them have control of anymore, if they ever did. 

“Please,” Dean breathes in the space between them, voice low and tinged with embarrassment, with unhinged need. 

Oh god. He’s begging. 

Castiel can’t hope to bury his emotions completely, but there’s no way he can deny Dean. Not like this. Feeling the heat pour off of Dean’s skin, he wonders how long the man has been pent up, craving this so hard. On the edge of desperation to the point he might’ve considered giving it up to the wrong person.  

Castiel raises his palm to capture the side of Dean’s face, feels the prickle of stubble under his hand. 

“Are you sure?”

Instead of firing off some smart ass comment in a poor attempt to brush past the seriousness of what they’re about to do, the line they’re going to cross, Dean curls into him. He ducks his face into the curve of Cas’ neck and takes a deep unsteady breath. It’s a moment before Cas feels the tickle of Dean’s voice against the shell of his ear, the graze of his lips. 

“Please…” he murmurs again. And then, lower, “I want it to be you. Cas… I want you.”

Castiel goes still. Not sure he heard right, he draws back from Dean. He places both hands on either side of Dean’s face and searches his eyes, uncertainty and worry a hard lump in his throat. 

“Dean—“

For a second, Castiel catches the reaction from the hesitancy in his voice. A flash of fear running like a current below the mask of Dean’s features. He’s trying hard to hide it, but it’s there. 

Castiel never finishes his sentence, he knows this is going to go somewhere it wasn’t meant to, but he can’t bring himself to say no. Maybe he isn’t meant to. 

Everything he’s always wanted is right in front him… This man, this stunning complicated soul. Asking Castiel to be with him. 

He looks at Dean and dips his chin, running his hands down the column of Dean’s throat, over his shoulders and along his tense, muscular arms. Castiel doesn't bother to say anything. All he does is pry Dean’s arms from around his neck and grab the man’s wrist, drawing him away from the kitchen and down the hall. 

Knowing Dean won’t have anything necessary in his room, Castiel leads Dean to his own bedroom at the end of the hall. It’s deathly quiet. Like the entire city has decided to shut up for this single moment. 

Silent enough that Castiel hears the flutter of his heartbeat echoing in his ear drums. The blood pounding in his veins. 

A first time is always fraught with nervous energy and this won’t be any different. No, that’s not true, he reconsiders; this will be worse. 

As they stand in Cas’ bedroom and take in one another, Dean offers up a shaky smirk and says, “Thought you were gonna unwrap me and bend me over the island?”

The flirty taunt falls flat. Dean licks over his bottom lip and swallows, shifting from one foot to the other. 

Castiel can’t seem to migrate his way back to the light-hearted moment when those words were said. Instead, he holds Dean’s gaze and moves in closer, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt and drawing it up. His knuckles graze over smooth skin, and it’s like a current coursing between them. 

Dean’s muscles flex and tense under his touch, a shaky breath rushing past his parted lips. 

Castiel pulls the t-shirt over Dean’s head and tosses it on the floor to join the rest of the mess in his room. He likes the idea of their clothes mingling in discarded array. As though it’s how it should be. Their lives, already so linked, further blended together.

Some part of him is terrified of that, of tangling their lives more. But after one look at Dean, he knows he will give Dean this. He has to. He  _ wants _ to. 

There must be a soft smile on his lips because Dean narrows his eyes and whispers, “What?”

Shaking his head, Cas muses, “Nothing. I’m just…” He avoids the truth. “I’m wondering what’s on your mind... right this second.” He moves his body within an inch of Dean’s and worms his hands between them to undo the man’s jeans. 

Dean glances down before answering. “Uh, expletives mostly…  in various languages.”

A huff of laughter bubbles from Cas’ throat and he inches Dean’s zipper all the way down. “Have you been thinking about this all night?”

Tentatively, Dean snags the edge of Cas’ sweater and moves to pull it off. Just as he does, he brings his forehead to rest against Cas’. “Honestly?” He waits a beat, takes a steadying breath and says, “Ever since you moaned my goddamn name in your sleep.”

Cas feels a private smile turn up the corners of his mouth. If only Dean knew the truth. That Castiel has been wanting this almost since the very first day they met. A sticky hot September afternoon in a cramped dorm room. 

Trading looks and nudging each other, they undress. In passes they move closer and apart, touching foreheads, noses, the brush of lips against a jawline. Every move a screaming tease in the void of kissing.  Castiel wants nothing more than to taste Dean’s tongue. But he knows what it would mean. 

It’s the only barrier standing between casual and more. And a slim barrier at that.

When they’re finally rid of every stitch of clothing, Castiel guides Dean against him, sighs at the heat of his friend’s chest melding into his own. Cas reaches down and grabs Dean’s wrists, holding on as he starts to kiss a path down his body. 

After several enjoyable seconds, Castiel sinks to his knees. 

Above him, Dean sucks in a breath. The release of it uneven, quick. Every line of his body rippling with tension, it makes the two-headed dragon-like monster on his shoulder seem alive. It’s amusing to see Dean shiver as he stands there bare to the room, as though he’s revealing more than he ever has. 

Which is ridiculous. 

Castiel has seen his roommate naked a thousand different times, maybe more. He knows every curve and dip, every tattoo in precise detail. He could mold Dean from clay if he wanted to. 

Dean’s fists are clenched at his sides. Waiting for action, a nervous air thick in the space around him.  

It’s no use to point out how glaringly disparate this moment is from the casual sex it was originally supposed to be. Castiel knows the heat between them stems from something deeper than arousal. A friendship and closeness built over years of mutual goals achieved and memories shared. 

Normally, he prefers to be in a position of power when it comes to being with Dean. And he’s only just beginning to understand what that means. But now? In this moment? All he wants is to worship Dean, to lay out his utter respect and appreciation for the man. For his best friend. For the person he’s built his entire life around. 

Meeting those vivid green eyes, making clear his intentions, he drags his palms up Dean’s taut, lightly haired thighs. 

His friend’s rigid cock jutting out into the space between them, kicking wantonly under Cas’ watchful, heated gaze. 

Castiel swallows, hungry for the taste of it. “Fuck my mouth, as hard and fast as you want… but don’t come.”

Dean bites his lip, unclenches his balled fists and nudges his hips closer.  The curved head of his full cock rubs across Cas’ lips in a blaring tease. Smiling, Castiel licks the tip and draws Dean slowly into his mouth. 

Every hot solid inch of him. Dribbles of precome smear onto his tongue and he swallows around Dean’s erection, loving the way it dominates his mouth. Castiel bobs his head in a few thrusts, sucking along Dean’s shaft until the man takes over. 

It doesn’t take long. 

Breathing heavy, Dean falls into an impatient rhythm.  Castiel notices the tension slide off his frame, as he hoped it would. In no more than ten minutes Dean is panting for air, letting his head fall back, every moan louder than the last. 

“Cas,” Dean murmurs, “Cas… fuck, you feel so good, I can’t—oh god—I can’t think.”

Castiel takes every drive of Dean’s rocking hips, keeping still even as his jaw starts to ache, letting Dean fuck his mouth as savagely as he wants. Even so, he’s far more gentle than Cas would expect. 

After a while, Dean stops, abruptly pulling out and stumbling backwards. “Oh God, I’m gonna come if—” He slams his mouth shut and clenches his jaw.  They both watch his erection kick several times; his body teetering too close to the edge. 

Not thinking twice, Castiel reaches out and gives Dean’s hard-as-nails dick a slap. 

Dean hisses and chokes on a thick groan, head tossed back, mouth dropping open. “Uhnn, fuck—what—what the fuck!?”

“Better?” Castiel grins. 

“No,” he grates out, breathing hard but no longer on the verge of climax. 

“Don’t worry, you’ll come eventually… and I promise it will feel better than that would’ve.”

Realization dawns over Dean like a curtain. The nervous coil is back. Castiel can see it twist inside his best friend. He rises and pushes Dean back towards the bed, stalking after him. He knows Dean needs him to take over, to guide this. 

Dean’s bright green eyes watch him as if he’s looking at Castiel for the first time. Curious eyes roam across the planes of his skin and drag up and down the lines of his body. It’s an incredible sensation; to be under the weight of such attention. A powerful feeling. 

Not to mention  _ unbelievably _ arousing. 

Another couple steps and Dean bumps the bed, gracelessly falling back. Eyes locked on Cas, he shuffles up towards the headboard. There’s a faint tremble in his thighs, the small movements noticeable in his upraised knees. 

Castiel runs his hand up from Dean’s ankle, curving in, sliding towards the sensitive inner part of his thighs. There, he pushes Dean’s legs apart, forcing them to fall open to the sides. 

“It’s usually better to be on your hands and knees,” he advises, “especially for someone who’s never done this before. But I need to be able to see you, Dean. And since I happen to know what I’m doing, I won’t hurt you.” He pauses and studies Dean’s face. “Do you trust me?”

Dean nods, his stomach and chest moving fast with the pace of his breath. Frowning, Castiel sweeps his palm up the length of Dean’s torso, forcing him to inhale deeper. It’s as though Dean doesn’t even realize how naturally he responds to Castiel’s touch and command. How it’s become an automatic impulse to follow Cas’ unspoken intentions. 

Knowing neither of them have been with anyone in a long time, and considering the last time they were both checked was together, Cas could forego a condom. But it’s not only his decision. “I believe you know I’m clean… as I know you are as well. But I can use a condom if you want, if that makes you more comfortable.”

It’s obvious Dean would rather not have to make decisions or speak much at all. He wants to be taken apart and not have to make choices in the process. 

“You want this,” Castiel tells Dean. “It’s your decision. I need you to speak up on this one.”

Dean shakes his head first, then says, “No. I trust you. Go without. I—” Dean presses his lips together, eyes darting nervously away.

“You what?”

“I want to feel you.”

Cas smiles, leaning down to look into Dean’s eyes. “I want to feel you too.” 

Twisting over to the side of the bed, Cas grabs a bottle of lube from the drawer in the nightstand. He pours a generous amount into his hands and reaches down to close his hand around Dean’s warm cock, the flesh of it a little less hard than before, laying against his lower abdomen. Dean bucks up at the sudden touch, a rush of air breezing past his lips. 

“What?” Castiel chuckles, “You assumed foreplay was off the table because we’re only friends?”

Dean tries to smile, but he’s already lost to the build up and the nerves and the pleasure crawling under his skin. It’s a beautiful look on him. One Castiel isn’t sure he could live without, now that he’s seen it. 

“Dunno,” Dean mumbles, his body moving in waves as Cas jerks him with a slick fist. 

Castiel continues until Dean is hard and stiff, chasing the rise and fall of his hand. He sweeps down to cup Dean’s balls, rolls them between his fingers and slips down to knead the space behind. He draws back up, runs his hand up Dean’s shaft and works his palm over the tip, moving in a circle to get Dean moaning before quickly returning his fingers down between Dean’s legs and lets the lube already on him and the sweat on Dean guide his entry. 

His finger slides into Dean’s lax body, the sudden invasion making him tighten in an instant. Castiel places his other hand against Dean’s belly and drags it down to his pelvis, watches the way Dean naturally grinds down onto his index. 

“Do it again,” demands Cas. 

Dean catches his eye, glancing down through his lashes. Pressing his lips together, he claws at the bed for leverage and fucks himself onto Cas’ finger, his tight lips stretching into a distorted grimace. Pleasure and a hint of embarrassment burning through him. 

“Again,” says Castiel. 

This time, when Dean sinks down on him, Cas works a second finger inside. He feels Dean shake from head to toe. No further guidance is needed. Dean falls into the pattern with minimal hesitation. He starts slow, nervously, grinding onto Cas’ hand, impaling himself onto Cas’ twisting digits.

It doesn’t take long before Dean’s chest is flushed and his head is rammed back onto the bunched comforter. Both of his muscular, gorgeously ink-stained arms are bent over his head, elbows in the air, fists buried in Cas’ pillows. Abrupt little moans, “Uhhn, uhhnn, uhhmnn,” spilling free. Each sound in time with every downthrust of his hips. Castiel smiles from the feel of Dean’s insides fluttering around him, hot and tight and slick.

As Dean loses himself to the moment’s pleasure, Castiel adjusts his position and uses his free hand to slather his erection in lube. After wiping his hand on the bed—glad that Dean doesn’t notice this because surely the neatfreak would have something to say about it—he reaches out and squeezes Dean’s thigh to get his attention.

His friend’s body stills, shudders, abs flexing as he levers himself up off the pillows to take in the sight of Castiel dominating the space between his legs. Every breath is tearing in and out of Dean. 

He opens his mouth, lips bit-swollen and red, disorientation all over his features.  “You’re stopping…” Dean mumbles, confused. 

Castiel grins and resumes thrusting his fingers as he speaks, “Unlike Sunday, this—” he pauses, brushing against Dean’s prostate for emphasis, “—is  _ not _ the main event.”

Lips parted, Dean exhales in a gush. His eyes close for a passing second to feel the electricity of Cas’ touch racing through him. 

When those familiar green eyes are locked with Castiel once more, he descends over his best friend, the simple action screaming volumes of significance. Castiel braces his weight on the pile of pillows past Dean’s messy head of hair. His thighs butted up against Dean’s, rigid bare cock close enough to feel the intimate heat of the man beneath him. 

Castiel’s heart is hammering inside his chest, blood racing in his ears. The way Dean is staring up at him, curious desperation mixed with emotional fear, has him drowning in awe and unfathomable disbelief. 

How is this real? How is he getting to be with Dean like this? 

It seems like the right time to say something. But neither of them do. What could possibly be said?

Instead, his eyes settle on Dean. Watching the ripple of thoughts run across his best friend’s handsome features. Castiel licks his lips and curls his fingers still buried inside the man, pulling them out slowly, stretching and twisting as he does. It’s captivating to watch the reaction of his touch. Fuck, he can’t wait to fill Dean. To claim his body the way no one else has before. 

Castiel takes hold of his cock and moves closer, arching over to bring them face-to-face. As soon as the sensitive tip of his erection greets the hot entrance of Dean’s body, he exhales hard and drops his head for a minute. It’s overwhelming. 

He's about to fuck his best friend. Oh god. 

When he looks up again, Dean is hanging on the moment. Tense and wide-eyed. Stunned into utter silence. 

Castiel shifts the hand holding his dick to brush his fingers where their bodies are barely connected. Everything is slippery and feverishly hot. He bites his lip and pushes a little more, his fingers rubbing around the round slick head of his cock and Dean’s tight hole. The dual sensations of increasing pressure and the gentle prodding of his fingers have Dean squirming under him. 

“I’m glad it’s me,” murmurs Castiel, his gravelly voice soft against the backdrop of traffic noise pulsing at the window pane. 

A line forms between Dean’s brows, thoughts and emotions causing flickers to dance over the curves of his face. “Me too,” he whispers, voice wrecked already. 

Moving his hips, Castiel presses himself against Dean. But fuck… the man is tight, wound up into hard lines and impossible tension. He breaches Dean with his fingers again, spreading them wide, rocking his dick into the open vee between his knuckles. Nothing but gentle motions; a bit of pressure, then retreat. 

“Fuck,” gasps Dean, his mouth hanging open. 

Castiel stops for a couple breaths, fighting every urge not to ram himself inside and gain relief from the ball of heat buried in the pit of his stomach. The anticipation of feeling Dean’s body give way to him is the single greatest thrill of his life. 

With Dean’s green eyes locked on him, Castiel mutters, “Dean… you need to relax, take a deep breath. Pull your legs back more…” His friend complies, swallowing loudly. “Yes, perfect. And now just, make your whole body... pliant.”

A nervous laugh trickles out of Dean, his lip shaking for a moment. “Trust me, I’m tryin’.”  

Trapped beneath Castiel is not the man he’s pulled all-nighters with running code and mocking up graphics for a new app. This Dean is without any semblance of control, vulnerable to the nuance of the moment. Gone is the runaway mind.

And nothing is more breathtaking. 

Dean is trembling from his shoulders to his feet, making a valiant attempt to wring out the anxiety from his body. Finally, he swallows thick and sucks back a deep breath. As he lets out a ragged exhale, every hard line turns soft, putty under Cas’ touch. Voice thick and rough, Castiel offers deserved praise, “Perfect Dean…  _ Fuck.  _ Exactly like that…” 

Casting one last significant look at Dean, searching his lust-filled eyes for some clue as to where they’ll be in the aftermath of this, Castiel bites his lips and irrevocably tarnishes their friendship by forcing the wide head of his cock past the tight ring of muscle, groaning at the heat and pressure of Dean’s body giving way to him. 

All the air drives out of his lungs in one go. God in heaven, Dean is so fucking tight. The entire world hazes into a blur for a few unsteady heartbeats. Warmth rises from Cas’ neck to his face and he doesn’t even realize he’s shut his eyes. 

Now, he opens them. Needing to see, to watch. 

Dean’s entire body shudders beneath him, that stubbled jaw hanging open and the man’s broad inked chest frozen still. 

“Breathe, Dean,” he says with a smile, “it’s just the tip.”

“Fuckin christ…” Dean reaches back and grabs restlessly at the pillows, his entire frame flexing and shifting, adjusting. “What crazy ass caveman was the first to try this?”

“Probably the horniest one.”

Dean chuckles then abruptly moans, abs flexed as his reactions tremble through him. In sheer rapture, Castiel studies his best friend… sees the nuance of it all dance through his eyes, feels his body loosen just enough to make Cas grind his teeth with the urge to slam into him hard and deep. 

But he doesn’t. Every shred of baited energy making him shake with adrenaline.

In the suspended moment of inaction, with only his cockhead buried inside Dean’s ass… they stumble into a dark stare, eyes boring into each other, breaths hot and rapid. Bare skin and intimate penetration—however subtle—silently, irrevocably damaging their friendship.

Neither of them willing to admit it out loud. Both of them wanting this more than their own sense of preservation. 

In a slow rocking motion, Cas nudges in deeper then draws back. Fucking Dean with only the head of his cock, teasing him. Creating a wondrous sinful drag inside Dean’s body. He watches Dean close his eyes and open them, every thrust causing a dazed flurry of expressions to flit across his face.

Wonder. Discomfort. Pleasure. Awe. Need. Desperation.

“Cas,” Dean whines, licking across his lips.

“I know, Dean.” Leaning forward, Cas rests his forehead on Dean’s, unable to look away from the open trust in his eyes. 

Castiel places one hand under Dean’s knee, guiding it back and bracing his own weight. Without warning and really not much forethought, he bottoms out in one long, smooth thrust, his balls resting against Dean’s hot skin and the man’s heavy breaths rushing up against Cas’ lips. 

Wet heat grips and tightens around his swollen cock, making Castiel grind his teeth against the force of pleasure. 

“Ahhh, fuuuuuck, fuck, fuck...” Dean hisses, his hips shifting like they want to escape and get closer at the same time. 

“I’ll go slow,” Cas cautions, his voice all gravel and air, “tell me if it starts to hurt.”

Dean nods vigorously and turns his head to the side, running his fingers up through his hair. Blindingly gorgeous. Castiel has never seen anyone give themselves over to pleasure so intently, making it their whole world.  

Pulling back, Castiel closes his eyes to feel the way Dean’s inner walls constrict around him, intrinsically fighting the emptiness. When he drives in deep again, he can’t help the sharp snap of his hips. Groaning as the bones of his body thud against Dean’s, their skin greeting in a gratifying dull smack. 

Forcing his eyes open, he’s struck by the way his best friend is gazing up at him. Awe and desperation, heightened by emotion no longer buried. Castiel knows, in that moment, there’s more than his own feelings at play. Without a doubt.

Both of them are treading in uncharted waters. Maybe drowning. 

With a heavy heart, he knows this casual-turned-serious tryst can’t possibly end well. 


	17. Chapter 17

Nothing makes sense anymore. 

The world has turned itself inside out, and Dean is fighting a losing battle against the raw ache inside his chest. Everything is wrong. Precisely because of how very  _ right _ it feels. How annoyingly heart-stopping perfect.

Which is fucking terrifying. 

Dean has never felt this connected to anyone in his entire life—not through sex or death or birth. It claims him on a basic level, somewhere deep in the depths of his psyche. Or worse.  As if Cas is splitting apart his soul and burrowing in for the long haul. 

And Christ, he's  _ so _ full. Spread open to take Cas deep, the sensation a strange mix of intense pleasure and sharp-edged vulnerability. 

His body is no longer his alone. The feel of his best friend, heavy and prominent above him, moving over him, inside him, releasing thick groans inches away from his lips. It’s staggering, impossible to comprehend the beauty and raw power of it. 

Nothing has or will ever feel this incredible, this consuming. Sex wasn’t supposed to overcome him like this. 

Then again, his brain nudges at him,  _ maybe _ this flooring sensation has nothing to do with the act and all to do with the person. 

Fuck. 

“Look at me.”

Hearing Cas’ rough, husky voice, Dean scrambles through his own fog to find blue eyes fixed on him. Searching for something, an indication of his current state of enjoyment or lack thereof maybe. Dean’s never had to war between emotional overload and sexual stimulation before. 

Jesus, he feels like a computer running two operating systems. 

Cas stares intently at him, worry clouding over the pleasure. “Are you okay?”

“I, uh—” Dean’s shoddy attempt at an explanation for his no-doubt frazzled countenance dithers away into ether. But he tries again, knowing Cas won’t give a shit if he sounds like a moron. “Christ,” he curses, pulling at his hair, “I’m kinda feeling a little unhinged here,” he explains. Then shakes his head. “No, no. A  _ lot _ unhinged. I don’t know how I’m feeling. I—” he slams his lips shut against more words. His brain is starting to run away from him. 

Cas is fucking him. Holy shit. 

His best friend stops moving and temporarily lets go of the hold he’s had on Dean’s thighs to capture his face. “I know,” Cas says quietly, significance bleeding into his voice. Staring into his eyes, Cas draws back and grinds into him, long and slow and brain-numbing. 

Goddammit. 

Cas knows everything. He knows whatever flimsy supports this endeavour into casual sex had are crumbling like chiseled stone. All of Dean’s uncertain feelings are splayed out and the worst part is he hates them. Doesn’t know what the goddamn hell to do about them. 

Dean doesn’t handle complexity well. Not when it comes to anything other than binary interactions in two-dimensional environments. 

“Cas...” he breathes, sounding lost. Hating it. 

Dean reaches out and wraps his arms around Cas’ neck and drags him closer. Having read in detail about the way Cas would kiss him, sometimes slow, sometimes savage…  it’s all he wants. He knows what doing so would mean. But fuck if he hasn’t already crawled shamelessly across that line. Pleasure the likes of which he’s never known have made him stupidly reckless.

He needs to taste Cas, to know how his tongue would feel sliding between his lips. So, he pulls and tightens himself around his best friend, silently begging for the one thing he’s not supposed to ask for, not supposed to want. 

But Cas doesn’t succumb to his quiet pleas. 

He whimpers at the feel of Cas’ unwavering resistance. But they’re close enough, and closer still with every thrust that his nose brushes against Cas’. Something like a kiss, he thinks. 

_ Fuuuckk.  _

Almost, he pulls again, just a little more. A little closer. They’re on the brink, _oh_ _God,_ a breath away maybe. He can feel the heat from Cas’ mouth, and it drives him half insane. 

Increasingly desperate, a foreign whine rising up his throat, Dean uses all his strength and the power of his need and drags Cas tight to him as he angles his face. In one quick move, he extends his tongue and licks at Cas’ upper lip. 

The reaction from his near rule-breaking act is nothing short of magnificent.

Cas growls in pleasure and opens his mouth. Not to kiss Dean. Not quite. His tongue teases a wet line across Dean’s parted mouth, taunting him. Before Dean knows what’s happening, he’s found himself in a salacious, pornagraphic kiss involving only their tongues. It’s wet and straining and makes his dick leak precome, the warm sticky substance smearing all over his trembling abs. 

He breathes heavily through his gaping mouth and around the dirty greeting of their tongues. Moans curl up from his chest every time Cas’ cock slams into him, filling him to the point where his body is viscerally shocked by the staggering thick presence. 

He can’t stop shaking. 

The walls are down, blown apart. And he’s lost, confused, knowing he never wants it to end. There’s no evading how completely and totally Cas is claiming him, turning him into a wanton whorish mess. Every blinding connection of their bodies makes his head swim, heat coiling in his gut, his own cock weeping and kicking for more. 

Dean can’t take it. Yet he wants more. All better sense and logic have been fucked straight out of town. Gathering all his shaky strength, he clenches his abs and rises up from the bed, arms locking Cas in place. 

Goddamnit, he wants a fucking kiss! Something real, something bordering on sweet. Any kind of reflection on Cas’ part that the mess inside Dean’s mind is inside his best friend’s as well. 

Dean goes for it. 

The brush of their lips is nothing more than a nanosecond, leaving his heart wrenching with urgency and longing. With a low growl, Cas grabs a fistful of Dean’s hair and yanks his head to the side. Dean chokes on a rasp of air at the sudden pinch of Cas’ teeth biting his throat, finishing off the attack by sucking a hard bruise to the surface of his tender skin. 

“Uhh, fuck,” Dean moans, trying to fuck himself onto Cas’ cock harder. “Cas… please. Cas, Cas…” mumbling his best friend’s name. 

Begging for more, for less, for things he doesn’t understand. For a kiss… for… everything. 

Dean coasts his hands all over Cas’ body with fervour and some manic undercurrent, fingering down his beautiful spine, picturing the sight of bare flesh mirrored by gorgeous art, squeezing the back of his neck, grabbing at his tight, clenching ass as he thrusts into Dean. 

“Dean,” Cas groans his name, tucks his face into the curve of Dean’s shoulder and breathes against him, hot and moist. It makes Dean shiver, makes his blood race. 

He threads his fingers into Cas’ wild messy sweat-damp hair, then down his sides, ghosting across his abs as best he can reach and up past the other man’s ribs. He uses his nails and his grip to demonstrate the sweet rage of emotion erupting inside himself. 

A thread of guilt prickles through the haze. Dean begged Cas to fuck him, even after Cas’ sincere warning that the first time can be intense. He should’ve known better, should’ve listened to his friend. 

But it’s too late now. 

Dean hasn’t a clue whether this is normal. He doesn't think it is. Every fibre and nerve and cell in his body is screaming that this means more than he’s able to wrap his genius brain around. But how could he possibly know? 

“Stop thinking,” Cas whispers into his skin, the rolling motion of his hips slowing for a few seconds. 

Dean clings to Cas’ voice, to his scent, to the intimate stretch of Cas’ thick cock spearing into him in the most gradual erotic invasion. 

Following a few more soothing words, Castiel kisses a passionate trail from Dean’s neck to his jaw, a damp tongue tracing the shell of his ear. And finally, a sweet chaste kiss to the rise of his cheek before they find themselves staring at eachother. 

Locked in a gaze amidst the pleasure and the uncertainty. 

Dean, very much overwhelmed and unanchored to reality. And Cas? Maybe conflicted but… maybe in love, Dean wonders. He thinks of the stories again, remembers the affection. Annoyed that he finds himself jealous of them, of the written version of himself. 

Fuck. 

Is Cas in love with him? Is that the warmth in his eyes Dean’s seeing? Or was the story just a story? How is it possible to know? There are no fucking equations for this shit! He groans his frustration and watches the same irritation of emotion overtake his friend. 

“Fucking christ, Dean…” Cas bites his lip, looking angry and then grabs Dean’s wrists and pins them above his head. 

His best friend’s pace becomes ruthless, a sheer devouring. Savage. 

And Dean feels vindicated, relieved, empowered. Yessss, fucking yes, this is what he wants. For Cas to fall apart too. 

Every drive of his hips against Dean is hard and jarring. The thick length of his cock is a fast, delirious blur of unending friction inside Dean’s body. Heat radiates across his skin in a fever, sweat beading down between his pecs.

He’s going to come. All over himself and without being touched.  _ Again. _ Cas knows it by looking at him, and Dean blushes at how traitorous his body is. 

Not pausing the rapid-fire grind and snap of his hips, Cas releases the iron-hard grip around Dean’s wrists only to lock their fingers together. Dean winds his legs around Cas’ waist and crosses his ankles, the slight change of position angling Cas’ thrusts just right to nail his prostate. 

Fuck fuck  _ fuuuuck _ . He shouts and keens with every hit, sensation bursting inside him. 

Every dirty drill of Cas’ erection into him splits Dean’s mind in half at the body-shaking deepness with which Cas is taking him. There’s something primal and proprietary about it. And if Dean knew anything other than the words “Fuuuuck” and “Uhhnn” at that moment, he’d know Cas was owning him and his pleasure.

Dean feels like he’s surrendered. Happily. 

“Uh, god…” he murmurs, shivers rippling through him despite the oppressive heat. “Fuck, fuuuuck, oh god,” he rasps with each drive of Cas’ steady hips. 

An embarrassing choked sob wrenches out of his throat and Dean strains forward, as close to Cas’ face as possible and warns him in a breathlessly quick voice, “I’m gonna come, Cas… fuck, I’m gonna come....”

Cas’ sweaty forehead rests on Dean’s. Their darkened, conflicted stares meeting in the middle. “You’ve no idea…” Cas huffs and pants, “how long,” he fucks Dean deep, stills, and says, “I’ve wanted this.”

It’s this confession that ultimately drives Dean to the edge, poises the coiled tension into a nearly painful  _ almost there _ infinite moment. Somehow validating his distraught emotional rollercoaster of a first time. As his pleasure peaks, striking that achingly sharp chord somewhere deep inside him, Cas’ rocky deep voice rises through the haze, “Fuck yes…” Cas rears back and slams into him. “Come for me, Dean. Let me feel you pulsing around my cock.”

Cas fucks him hard twice more, demanding his release. Pushing him to the brink.

Dean’s orgasm crashes over him like a tsunami in slow motion. It trembles and shatters through him, euphoric energy pulsing through his veins. His swollen cock spasms, wet streaks of come splattering onto his skin.

Against his will or cognizance, tears bubble up with a rush of emotion and trickle past the corners of his eyes. Dean has no recollection of the last time he cried. 

“Beautiful,” Cas is whispering, arousal threading into his rough voice. “Fucking gorgeous, you know that?”

The praise makes Dean cry harder and he knows it’s useless to try and stop the outpouring of crazy. God, what the hell is happening? No fucking way this is normal. 

Abruptly, Cas slows down. His rigid sex feeling impossibly hard inside Dean, the heat of it radiating into him. “Do you want me to pull out?” Cas asks, strained… blatantly on the verge of climax. 

Dean bites his lip, watches Cas’ sexy taut expression and makes the man wait several fluttering heartbeats before clenching down and saying, “Don’t you fucking dare…”

Groaning, Cas fucks into him and grinds his hips deep and dirty. Only a few seconds later, a stunning grimace of pleasure warps Cas’ features. His jaw tight and a dent between his dark brows. 

“Oh god…. Dean,” the words passing through his teeth. His eyes stay open, a gorgeous ring of blue around hungry black. 

Dean’s mouth opens on a gasp as he feels Cas’ hard cock swell to an impossible girth, making Dean wince from the added stretch and pressure. But the moment’s discomfort is nothing compared to the sheer joy of feeling Cas emptying inside him. Quick pulses building to a wet slippery warmth collecting inside his ass. Cas’ lazy final thrusts work his come in and out of Dean, an erotically mind-blowing mess. Making him crazed with an unexpected flush of arousal. His eyes roll back and he unlocks his arms from Cas’ neck to stretch out and curl his hips into the sensation. Hot, and wet, rivulets of Cas’ come snaking down the crease of his ass. 

Fuuuck. Fuck. He squirms around to feel it more. “Holy shit,” he stammers, in a state of wonder. 

Cas’ hands find their way to Dean’s chest and coax a few needed breaths of air back into his lungs. Then, the warmth of Cas’ touch splays down to his abdomen where his release has started to cool and mix with the dew of sweat. 

Their breathing is harsh and loud in the relative silence that follows a good fucking. Dean is almost embarrassed by the sounds coming out of him. He’s no longer crying, but the evidence remains in tracks down his temples. 

For a few lingering minutes, they rub and touch each other, trading uncertain looks and giving out silent questions neither of them have the balls to answer. 

Cas offers Dean an apologetic smile and starts to pull out. Only then does Dean feel the slight burn and soreness of his first time. He bites his lip and breathes in and out quickly until all that’s left between his asscheeks is the slippery evidence of Cas’ pleasure. 

It’s messed up that he likes it. Dean is not exactly one to enjoy being dirty. Even when it comes to sex. But knowing Cas’ release is all painted inside him and spread up and down his crease, he’s kind of… turned on by it. Of all things. 

“Can I sleep here?” he asks, feeling stupid on several levels. His own room is less than ten feet away, but god he can’t imagine getting out of this bed and being alone. 

Cas arranges them on their sides, facing each other and drags Dean close. He nudges Dean’s nose with his, the stupid way they avoid kissing now it seems. Even as he loves it, he hates it. 

“You think I’d let you leave?” Castiel teases in response.

A shaky laugh breaks through Dean’s chest and he worms in closer, tucking his head under Cas’ jaw. He breathes deep, tasting Cas’ scent on his tongue.

How the fuck can a man smell like home? Dean asks himself. 

Man… tomorrow is going to be fraught with uncomfortable conversations and likely revelations. Dean’s hatred and avoidance of relationships just got fucked. 

Son of a bitch.


	18. Chapter 18

There’s something about November, Castiel thinks. How the air is cool and crisp, autumn leaves plastered to the sidewalk. Stains of orange and red and yellow on the concrete. The promise of cold nights and icy precipitation a warning on the horizon. Sometimes sooner than expected.

He loves it, always has. Dean hates it passionately—his only gripe about living in New York.

It doesn’t often snow in November. But this morning, listening to Dean snore beside him, Cas stares out the window and watches, transfixed, as dense white flakes lazily fall outside his window. It makes him want to burrow against the sleepy warmth of Dean’s skin.

While the temptation is a nagging ache in his chest, he doesn’t move towards his roommate. A quiet sigh passes between his lips, the dull pain of heartbreak heavy behind his ribcage. As amazing as last night was, not to mention the very clear indication of Dean’s feelings, Castiel can’t continue this.

Not in good conscience.

Fuck, it was never supposed to be more than casual sex. And sure, theoretically, Cas would love it if they could be more. But he’s not stupid. Dean detests relationships for one. And two, they have far too much on the line.

Wherever this was going, it needs to stop. Now.

It’s probably best if he’s not here when Dean wakes up. It would either be awkward or they’d wind up picking back up where they left off last night and more of Dean would only make it harder to step back.

Castiel chews his lip as he gently climbs out of bed, careful not to disturb his friend.  

First thing he does is use the washroom, but quickly after he ducks into Dean’s pristine room and turns the alarm off on his phone so the man can sleep unbothered for a couple more hours. God knows he needs it.

As the coffee is brewing, he writes a quick note letting Dean know he’s going for a run and will pick up some food on the way back.

He sits at the island, in a daze. Staring at his handwriting on the back of an envelope. In a spur of decision, he sketches a cartoon of himself holding a bagel. When the coffee is ready, he sips it hot and snacks on cereal in dry handfuls.

He’s glad by the time he’s dressed and lacing up his shoes that Dean still hasn’t woken. It’s rare Dean sleeps past eight o’clock, and yet in the last week and a bit they’ve been doing this, Dean has slept in a few times now.

It’s a miracle, really.

Just one more thing to feel guilty about regarding his decision to break this off. All these years, Castiel has worried about Dean’s high-strung routine, and now that he’s finally found a way to bring the man back down to centre… he has to stop? Turn away knowing it’s for the best.

But is it?

Fuck. Of course it is, he reminds himself. There’s too much at stake. Especially when neither of them know how to hold down a relationship. The chances aren’t good.

Dean of all people will have to agree. It’s not like Castiel is going to be breaking the man’s heart or anything. Even if he has feelings for Cas, they’re premature at best. New and foreign and easily thwarted.

This thought brings him a bit of comfort and assurance. He stuffs a twenty in his pocket and leaves the apartment.

In some places, running in the snow would seem insane. But New Yorkers are a special breed. People run in blizzards. Castiel isn’t _quite_ that crazy, but he’s got no problems with the chill on the air. It feels nice after the first mile is under his belt.

He runs down to 11th Avenue and heads south along the path by the Hudson. The pavement is cracked and the vegetation on his left is overgrown and gnarly. The turmoil in his head makes him run faster than he normally does but the cool air feels fresh and welcome in his lungs.

Normally he stops at the piers, but he doesn’t today. It’s hard to see anything with the grey oppressive clouds overhead anyway. Cas isn’t sure how long he runs for, feeling only the hard impact of his runners on the ground.  A paper thin blanket of snow now covers the path and everyone’s footsteps are visible, people going one way or the other, the weaving line of a bike’s tracks.

When he finally stops, he’s at the very tip of Manhattan and finally, wondrously out of breath. The sweat on his skin cools quickly, even under the fleece he’s wearing. In Battery Park he leans against the railing and looks out onto the water.

He’s not sure how much time passes before he hears the scritch of a lighter beside him, far too close to be a stranger. Looking to the left, he sees the smart grin of his favourite tattoo artist.

“Meg,” he greets her, smiling.

She sucks in a drag of her cigarette and folds her free arm in against the cold. “Clarence,” she teases. Knowing he hates the nickname.

They share silence for a few minutes, watching the snow fall until her small sensual voice rises to his ears. “You and Dean official yet?”

He huffs through his nose and rolls his eyes. “It’s not like that.”

She doesn't miss a beat. “Isn’t it, though?”

Muttering a curse, he ignores her and grabs the railing and pushes himself back and bends over to stretch his body out. He wonders how Dean’s joints and muscles will feel when he finally wakes up. It makes Castiel warm inside to hope the man’s pleasurably sore.

Meg doesn’t like being brushed off a topic once she’s set on something. “You guys get that you love each other, _right_? I mean, please don’t tell me my two favourite people on this crackpot earth are seriously that fucking dense?”

Whether or not it’s love or close to it doesn’t matter. “Love is not the quintessential element of success,” he tells her. “Besides, how long have you known us?”

She thinks for a moment. “Four years, give or take.”

“And in all that time,” he challenges, “have you ever seen Dean in a relationship. _Ever_?”

With a roll of her eyes, she concedes the point. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

“Meg, even in university, he was never serious with anyone. Not one single relationship in four years! And from what I know of who he was in high school… it was even worse. One girlfriend named Lisa in freshman year that lasted maybe two weeks. After that, all his stories seem to begin and end with violence.”

“Listen,” she argues, “just because he hasn’t found the right person doesn’t mean that person automatically isn’t you.”

He groans. “It doesn’t matter what you say, it’s not happening. This topic is off limits.”

Laughing with a snort, she takes a few final drags of her smoke before snuffing it out on the rail and flicking it into a nearby butt canister. “Suit yourself.”

Cas nods but doesn’t meet her eyes. He feels her gloved hand pat his back and hears the soft footsteps of her retreat. He has no concept of how long he’s been gone from the apartment but knows he should start making his way to the bagel shop.

He’d planned to jog there but all his energy is zapped after his conversation with Meg. He knows she means well, even if she goes about it in a thorny way. Still, it’s hard to shake her certainty where he and Dean are concerned.

It creates this stupid flare of hope in him. Like maybe Castiel is exactly the one person Dean is meant to be with. But good God, the concept of such a thing is so ridiculously quixotic. He brushes it off as crazy and wistful.

 

An hour later, bagels in hand, he walks into the apartment to the sound of the shower rushing out into the hall. Normally Dean closes the door when he showers… which means… he’s probably hoping to be joined.

Lord in heaven. Could a human man possibly be any more tempting?

Dropping the bagels on the counter and putting the fresh cream cheese in the fridge, he walks down the hall trying to harden his resolve. Steam is pouring out into the corridor. Castiel steps into the room to the low murmur of Dean humming a tune.

It’s a knife in the gut to see Dean this happy.

“Have a good sleep?” asks Castiel.

Dean whips around and wipes his hand across the foggy glass of the shower door. “Hey!” His responding smile is wide and careless. “Yeah, actually. Slept fucking awesome. Didn’t get out of bed till about ten minutes ago. How was your run? Were you gone a while?”

Knowing he shouldn’t, Cas unabashedly watches Dean shower as he answers the man. “I’m glad you slept well. It doesn't happen very often, does it?” Dean shakes his head and mutters _nope._ “My run was good…,” Castiel continues, “ran into Meg in Battery Park. Forgot to ask her why she was out walking around in the snow.”

“I can’t believe it’s snowing!” Dean says excitedly, cueing Cas in to how shockingly positive his best friend’s sudden behaviour is. Since... forever, Dean has _loathed_ the snow.  Now he’s excited? Dean continues chatting, “And yeah, I guess you weren’t there last New Year's cause you were visiting your manwhore cousin, but Meg loves the snow just as much as you do, I guess. Told me she always goes out during the first snowfall of the year. You’re both crazy. But,” Dean pauses, “I dunno…” he ventures in a lighthearted tone, “I think I kinda get it. It’s aesthetically pleasing, makes the city look clean for a few hours anyway.”

“Who are you?” Cas asks theatrically, leaning against the wall and running his fingers along the towel draped over the rack.

Dean laughs, a hearty sound. “Shut up. I’m in a good mood, sue me!”

Fuck, this is going to be hard. “I’m pleased,” he finally says, his voice carrying a tight edge hopefully only noticeable to himself.

“So uh,” Dean opens the door and waggles his brows insinuatingly. “You gonna join me or what?”

Swallowing his rolling emotions, Castiel shakes his head, trying to maintain a smile. “Too hungry after my run. I’m gonna get breakfast going.”

Dean shrugs, eyes narrowing only slightly at some prickle of suspicion. “Suit yourself.”

*     *     *

By the time Dean has dried off and is wearing boxers and a t-shirt, he can’t stop thinking about Cas’ guarded expressions a few minutes ago. Something is definitely off. And okay, last night was… fucking intense. Not at _all_ casual. But hey, so fucking what?!

After all, based on Dean’s secretive bout of reading yesterday, he knows Cas has feelings for him so if Dean wants to see where that goes, why can’t he? Fuck, he’s never felt this alive. His brain is still racing, but it’s not in the crazed spastic manner like normal. More like there are happy little bunny rabbits hopping between his synapses. Making him think about all things good and satisfying.

Much better than work or calculating the probability of North Korea bombing their city. Which he used to do on an alarmingly frequent basis. But you know, the world is a horrible place. Sometimes it’s warranted to take mathematical precautions.

But, you know what’s not horrible?

 _Cas_.

Except Cas is being weird again and Dean feels like he can’t keep up. Shit. This is exactly why he’s not a relationship kind of guy. Everything is so vague and cryptic. How is a man to know if a certain look means deep, complex thoughts are storming through your lover’s eyes or if they’re simply… tired or, like, fucking constipated or whatever.

No wonder psychologists make great bank.

Walking into the open living area, Dean takes a seat at the island to a waiting freshly schmeared bagel and a glass of orange juice. Best breakfast ever.

Cas is leaning on the other side, half his bagel already eaten. A smudge of cream cheese at the corner of his mouth. He’s still carrying a sheen of sweat from his run and his hair is matted down from whatever hat he wore.

It’s probably the least sexy Cas has ever looked. But somehow, Dean finds himself grinning wide as he bites into the chewy delicious cream cheesiness.

It takes him a few bites to realize Cas is _really_ staring at him. Not ogling or rolling his eyes at something Dean’s done but staring as if he’s got a colossal problem on his hands and there’s no viable solution.

Fuck.

Sinking dread drops like a bomb inside Dean, a horrible foreboding causing a lump in his throat. Heavy and sticky, making his formerly delicious blueberry bagel immediately unappealing.

“ _What?”_ he snaps. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

His roommate bites his lip and Dean knows he’s fucked. Cas is done with him. That’s what this is. His jaw is tight as a cable as he waits for Cas to deliver the fatal blow.

“Last night was… beyond amazing,” Cas begins, that gravelly deep voice cutting right through his earlier happiness. That goddamn pestilent unspoken _but_ hovering in the space between them.

Pissed off, Dean spits out the word himself, “But…?”

Rage burns hot under his skin, and he wants nothing more than to lash out. Or… fuck, he doesn’t know. Maybe solve the goddamn equation to predict the finality of the universe. He’s mastered the technological world, how hard could astrophysics be, _really_?

“Dean… don’t pretend you’re unaware of how very uncasual last night was,” says Cas, giving him a pointed look across the island. “When we started this, I thought… I don’t know.” Cas shrugs. “I didn’t expect something like this to happen and now that it has… I think it’s in both our best interests to stop what we’ve been doing before it gets complicated.”

With an indignant huff, Dean pegs Cas with a stubborn glare. “Kind of already complicated, Cas.”

“I know. I’m sorry about that. Maybe last night was a mis—”

“Seriously?” Dean cuts in. “Christ. And here I thought I was the problematic one. Anyway so what, man? Maybe we like each other more than friends. That so fucking bad?”

For a long minute, Cas says nothing. He chews his lip and stares into the negative space between them. “No,” he says quietly. “It’s not a bad thing… but Dean…” he sighs, lowering his voice, “you _hate_ relationships. I suck at them. We have far too much on the line to let this progress any further. You know that.”

Logically, somewhere in that left brain of his, he knows what Cas is saying makes perfect fucking sense. But there’s a stubborn needy man inside him revolting against the idea of Cas removing himself from Dean’s life like this.

Sure, they’ll still live together and work together and do practically everything together. But to not have the weight of Cas’ body on him, or the smell of the man on Dean’s pillow, the way his face tenses into hard lines when he comes. Ugh, fuck. Dean feels sick just thinking of being denied all of it.

Fucking emotions. Like what the hell.

Not _once_ has he ever made a decision based in emotion before. Not once! Now? He’s goddamn reeling and can’t seem to stumble back to his own black and white autonomous default.

Dean realizes he’s been staring at the quartz counter for several minutes and finally lifts his head, staring somewhere to the right of Cas’ face. “You’re right,” he grates out, bitter. “I do hate relationships. Thanks for the reminder. Too bad about the sex though,” he marches on robotically, “cause, uh, yeaaah… last night was pretty fucking sweet. Guess it’s back to porn for this guy.”

Cas says nothing to acknowledge he even spoke. The awkward tension is suffocating.

“I’m gonna go see Sam for a bit. Haven’t seen that kid in a while. And frankly,” he meets Cas’ gorgeous sharp blue eyes, ignoring hor tortured they look, “this whole conversation kinda makes me want to hurl. Emotional crap ya know, no offence.”

Regret and some other emotion Dean can’t place darkens Cas’ expression. It hurts to see it. But he has to find a way not to care.

With a mask of indifference, Cas shrugs. “None taken.”


	19. Chapter 19

Sam’s schmancy apartment is on the upper east side and Dean’s glad for it, needing the half hour of travel to himself. With the snow on the ground, he leaves his Harley in the garage and takes the subway. It’s nice to sit there and be another anonymous self-involved nobody on public transit.

He stares at the grimy floor, studiously not thinking about how fucking disgusting and unsanitary it is, and tries to ignore the annoying thumping beats coming out of the chunky headphones the guy on his right is wearing. Obviously this idiot has no idea he’s going to be suffering from premature hearing loss.

Fuck. _Fuck!_

As _if_ Cas broke up with him, he thinks irritably.

Course, that’s not _exactly_ the case, is it? Cause they were never _really_ together. But last night? Fuck. Yeah... Last night they were together. Maybe not with any verbal agreement to back it up. And sure, he might be a regular dumbass when it comes to relationships but there was no mistaking what that was. He won’t say making love ‘cause he’s not the type to use such a cloying term.

But ya know… that’s what it was.

Dean Winchester ain’t stupid. He knows what ‘ _Holy Shit’_ feels like in the sack. And what he and Cas did was some kinda next level soul bonding shit. Terrifying, no doubt. But damn if he’s never felt anything better.

Hmm, he thinks for a second. Maybe his genetically predisposed genes are finding a different kind of addiction? All these years he worried about falling helpless to the whims of J.D. Never fucking thought to set his radar to keep an eye out for best friends who fuck like goddamn champions and tease orgasms from him that turn the world upside down. Metaphorically, of course.

No way last night wasn’t something more. He knows.

Therefore, he’s of the opinion Cas broke up with him and seeing as he’s never been dumped before he’s surprised to realize it hurts about as fucking bad as every song implied it would. Awesome.

About fifteen minutes later, Dean raps his knuckles on the perfectly painted black door of Sam’s walk up townhouse. He tries to remember as he waits how long it’s been since he’s seen his brother. Maybe a month ago. They had burgers and a beer and went and saw some unremarkable action movie.

He should visit his brother more often. They don’t live that far apart but the guy is just so happy and set up in his life, it always reminds Dean how weird he is that the apple-pie life has so far evaded him.

The door flies open. All six feet and four inches of his brother takes up the door frame. “Dean! Hey. Come on in.” Sam moves back into the entrance and gestures with a sweep of his arm.

Same as always, it smells like warm essential oils and clean laundry in here. Sam’s shoulder length hair sways as he walks up the stairs to the main floor. His brother’s fiancee is in the kitchen, scrolling through wedding stuff on Pinterest when she sees Dean come in.

The welcoming, friendly blonde pops up out of her chair and throws her arms around Dean. “Hi almost brother-in-law,” she smiles through her words.

“Hey there yourself.” He squeezes her hard and lets go. “What have you guys been up to lately?”

They take a seat at the table and Sam fills Dean in on what they’ve been up to. Farmers markets and museums and new restaurants, somehow buried in amongst studying and his job at the vet hospital. The entire time Dean nods along and smiles, simultaneously happy to know his brother and Jess are enjoying the hell out of their lives but also irritably jealous they have it so easy and effortless.

It’s as though Dean wasn’t born with the ability to understand or figure out how to be happy. Maybe not quite happy, because no one’s ever happy twenty-four-seven, but content.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice cuts into his thoughts. “Something wrong? You’re usually a lot more chatty than this.”

He pushes a smile onto his face his it’s half-assed at best. “Uh, not wrong exactly. I dunno. Don’t worry about it, not important.”

Jess throws a look at Sam who stares back. At the same time, in perfected unison, they descend on Dean with matching expressions of, ‘Don’t bullshit us’ and ‘Speak the fuck up’.

He groans. “Calm it you two. I’m fine.”

Eyes wide, Jess makes a little surprised sound. “Oh my god… you’re in a relationship!” she squeals.

Oh Jesus. Dean feels his features twist into something seriously unamused. “Alright Nancy Drew, relax.”

But then Sam chimes in. “Holy crap, Jess. You‘re totally right. Who is it?” he demands.

Maaaaybe coming here was a bad idea.

Dean flattens his lips and clears his throat. “I am _not_ in a relationship,” he tells them. “Me and this guy fooled around and things got a little intense and it’s over. There. You know the whole story now let’s move on.”

For whatever reason, Sam smiles. In this annoying know-it-all kind of way. “Doesn’t seem like it’s over to me. You look all… ahh, what’s the word?”

Jess perks up. “Pining!”

“Yes,” agrees Sam with puppy-like enthusiasm, “you are so totally pining.”

“Oh my god,” Dean grumbles, burying his face into the fold of his arms on the table. His next words are muffled, “I am not fucking pining. And if I ever am, I sure as hell ain’t tellin’ you two about it!”

With that he stands up, ready to leave, but Sam and Jess follow him down the hall. “Ah, c’mon Dean, we don’t mean to pry, but this is huge. We’ve never seen you bent out of shape over someone before.”

At the door, he turns back to face his little family unit. “I know you guys mean well, I do. And I love y'all for it but damn. Here I am coming to visit and I get the third degree.”

Sam lays a hand on his shoulder. “I grill you ‘cause I care.”

“Yeah yeah,” Dean smiles at his brother. “If I ever wind up in an actual relationship, I swear you two will  be the first to be notified.”

“Damn well better be!” Jess adds.

He shakes his head at her. That woman is such a firecracker. Straight up New Yorker through and through. On his way out the door he makes plans with his brother to have dinner in a week. And at the last second, reminds them both of his work party coming up. They try to invite as many people as possible to pad out their meagre staff count.

This year they’ve rented out part of a restaurant and are hoping to see about sixty to eighty people show up. Staff and their partners, clients, extended family, and friends. It’s always a good night. Lots of drinking and dancing.

Dean walks back to the subway and tries to imagine this year stacking up.

It won’t. Because now things will be weird between him and Cas. Nothing like last year. When they had a few drinks under their belt and reflected on all they’ve achieved together, hiding out from Becky and her two weirdo friends in the coat room.

After the party… they walked through Central Park and he remembers hating it because it had been so fucking cold. But he also remembers smiling so hard his cheeks hurt because Cas was enjoying himself so much. Making goddamn angels in the snow.

He said, “Dean… I’m an angel!” laughing and splashing his arms and legs in arcs through the fresh snow. Then he snorted through another fit of laughter and rolled around like an idiot probably getting hypothermia. After that night, Dean made sure to limit his intake of white wine.

Yeah, Dean’s pretty damn sure this year won’t be anywhere near as memorable.

He’s about to take a step down to the subway when he stops and decides to wander over to Central Park. Do the whole aimless wandering thing so typical of emotionally constipated common folk. There’s a windy chill on the air and he groans, pissed off about the oncoming winter.

When he woke up this morning, feeling sore and well-used, looking out to a calm first snowfall… he laid there completely devoid of thought. Only an intangible note of relief and lingering fatigue registered in the moment.

He remembers stretching out in Cas’ bed, breathing in his smell and replaying the night’s events in detail. He’d been content, happy in the most wonderfully mundane aspect of the word.

Lying there, he knew he had feelings for his best friend. It wasn’t scary then. Not the way it is now.

Walking around, annoyed by the dozens of people going about their perfect little lives around him, he’s terrified of what it might mean to feel something real for someone for the first time in his life and not be able to do anything about it.

He’s suffered a lot in his life. Suffered pain and death and sorrow. But this?

It’s one thing to mourn a thing you had, a friend or relative or lover, it’s another to mourn what might’ve been a defining integral part of your future. A potential happiness you never knew you’d get and then suddenly… never would.

Christ. He is so unprepared emotionally to make sense of this. It will eat at him. And he’ll let it.

For Dean, pain is sometimes a necessary idle setting. He’s always been okay with it. For once, for the first time in his life… he doesn’t want the pain.

He wants the feeling he had this morning.

He wants the scream inside him to be gone.


	20. Chapter 20

For the next week and a half, Dean dives into his work.

There are half a dozen new projects that require his attention and above all else he _wants_ his attention fully diverted from the just-not-right atmosphere of his apartment these days.

But, God, he just can’t seem to finish anything. Every page of code he starts, his will to work peters off and he skips over to a different file until that too has his attention waning. Every single time his brain detours, it goes right to Cas.

Memories of their short little tryst haunt him. Every day that passes leaves him more agitated than the last. He starts to feel like he did in high school. Fighting that ever constant urge to pummel someone in the face. Or worse, set himself up to be on the receiving end of such violence.

He used to thrive on it. Back in the day. It got him all worked up, the fast-paced action and throbbing pain. It always had a way of tamping down the whirl of his brain.

On the surface of things, he and Cas are mostly back to normal. It was only a week and a few days, really. Should be an easy thing to get over.

But it’s not.

Almost two weeks after the “intense night of fucking,” Dean comes home from work and can’t find it in his patience to stay another night under the same roof as the person he can’t stop thinking about.

He’s at the door, shrugging on his leather jacket when Cas looks up from a sketchbook in his hands on the couch. “Where you going?”

“Out for a drink at the Roadhouse.” He doesn’t ask Cas to join him. He used to.

The Roadhouse was one of the first ever bars he fell in love with when he came here. A mother-daughter duo runs the place. It’s not all that popular, the food is subpar and no doubt eighty percent of its regular patrons are Trump-loving fuckwads but for whatever reason, Dean likes the grungy beat down atmosphere and the blue-collar crowd. So long as politics stays off the table.

Cas holds his gaze for a too-long moment. It makes Dean’s stomach tense with some foreign feeling. Pining? Is he seriously pining right now? Is that what he’s feeling. Pushing it back as best he can, he gets angry instead. Much easier.

“That alright with you?” he asks in the face of Cas’ silence.

“Of course…” after a heavy pause, Cas tacks on, “Be safe.”

Dean’s not sure what he means by that exactly. It’s either ‘wear a condom’ or ‘don’t get into a fight.’ Stepping out into the hallway, he’s sure he has no plans on either fucking or fighting, but lesser intentions have been broken in a night.

Truth be told, Dean is craving a faceful of fist in a way he hasn’t since he was sixteen.   


*     *     *

Watching Dean head out for the night leaves a bad taste on Cas’ tongue. 

It’s his fault. He knew this would happen, could see it unfolding from a mile away. It baffles him that he never noticed before. The way Dean cleans incessantly, how he flies off the handle at slight provocations. And all the little things too. Tapping his foot as he works, bouncing his knee even when he’s watching a movie.

It’s painful to watch now, knowing he could unravel the constant tension in Dean with his hands and his voice.  

There’s something ironic, given what Dean does for a living, that the man himself is almost exactly like a computer, whirring into overdrive and burning out his CPU unless someone comes along and powers him down. 

Now Cas is the one tapping his foot on the floor, mind spinning, thoughts conflicted. Knowing with absolutely certainty Dean is heading out in search of a fight. He could see the buried rage in Dean’s eyes, the same torment he’s witnessed first hand.

He shouldn’t go after Dean. What happened between them is over. It can’t happen again. 

It’s a terrible idea. 

After forty minutes, Cas jumps up from the couch and storms over to the door to grab his coat and boots, ready to go after his stubborn best friend. 

A terrible, horrible idea. But he can’t stop himself. 

Throwing open the double front door of the condo building and feelings the cool air against his face, Cas pulls his phone out and checks to make sure Dean is actually at the Roadhouse. Confirming he is, Castiel turns right and marches off, muttering under his breath. 

“Why am I doing this…” he shakes his head, repeating the question over a few times. Swearing in passes. 

It takes him just under twenty minutes to come across the Roadhouse, a lineup of motorcycles parked along the front. 

He rushes across the street, dodging away from a cab and is about to yank open the front door when he hears a pained grunt and telltale crack of fist hitting bone. 

Growling with anger and impatience, he jogs over to the alley and isn’t surprised to find Dean being held down against the dirty asphalt while some pea-brained brute hammers a fist against his jaw, splitting the skin.  

“Get the fuck off him,” Castiel shouts, moving into the scene, his shoulders squared off. 

The man rises to full height, easily over six feet and broad. A legitimate biker. One Cas should probably be afraid of. Instead he’s furious.

Without any concern or hesitation, he rushes the man and slams his fist into the underside of the asshole’s chin, snapping his block-shaped head back. Not a second later, he punches the man’s ribcage, then his side twice.  When the leather-covered dick tries to barrel forward in his direction, Castiel uses the man’s heft and momentum against him, grabbing at his jacket and launching him straight into his own trajectory. 

After a hard crash to the ground, Cas kicks him in the side then holds his boot over the man’s throat. “Get up and run or I will crush your fucking windpipe.”

Weakly, he hears Dean’s rocky voice behind him, “Cas… don’t.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel fires a displeased look at his roommate. “You be quiet, I’ll get to you next.” 

With that, Dean shuts up, notably swallowing and trying to sit up, blood smeared over the side of his face. 

Turning his attention back to the biker, Cas narrows his eyes and tilts his head. “Are you stupid? Did I not tell you to get up and run?”

Frankly, it’s amusing to see shocked fear in the man’s face. Cas doesn’t consider himself a fear-inspiring man, but he’s always known how to handle himself. A rough childhood will do that. Though he has to say the extent of his abilities have never been tested against someone quite like this. 

Struggling under the weight of Cas’ wet, salt-covered boot, the man wriggles and worms his way out from under the pressure and scrambles to his feet. 

“Fucking crazy… both of ya,” the guy mumbles, stumbling back to the sidewalk and storming off. 

Cas sighs and shakes his head, shoulders hanging. After a moment, he turns around and finds Dean sitting on the ground, wiping at the mess of his face. 

“Cas—”

“Not a word, Dean. Get up… we’re going home.”

They stare at each other for several seconds. Silence screaming between them. Dean spits out a bloody glob and pushes himself to his feet. 

Just as he steps in line with Cas, he opens his mouth for another excuse; a barely breathed syllable squeaking past before Cas cuts off his impending words and throws him against the wall, slapping a hand over Dean’s swollen, blood-spattered mouth.

“Never again,” he growls at Dean. “I don’t care what we are or what we’re not… you are never  _ ever _ to goad someone into beating you up ever again.”

Dean flashes him a mask of innocence, as if Cas would believe the beating wasn’t carefully brought on by Dean’s intended actions in the first place. 

“You may be more intelligent than me,” he acknowledges, “but I am neither stupid nor blind. Don’t you dare act like you didn’t bring this on yourself.”

Shifting uncomfortably, Dean looks back at him and works his jaw against the pressure of Cas’ hand, green eyes wide and lost. A heartbeat later, Dean is abruptly reaching out for the waistband of Cas’ loose yoga pants, trying to drag his hips closer. A low whimper rises up only to get trapped against Cas’ palm. 

Arousal pumps in Cas’ veins but he fights it off. For now. 

“We’re going home. Quietly. The entire way there… take deep breathes. In and out. If you let your mind slip… you better count.”

Relief floods Dean’s expression and Castiel hates how easily it happens. He slides his hand away and watches Dean gasp for air, prolonging their heated stare in a mix of wonder and uncertainty.  

Unable to help himself, Cas reaches forward and wipes the blood from Dean’s upper lip with his thumb. “We’re down the rabbit hole, aren’t we?”

Dean doesn’t provide a response, knowing he’s been told not to speak. At some point Cas should seriously research whatever this power play is a little more. Both of them have fallen blindly into it, roused from Dean’s needs and Cas’ long-built and formerly unrecognized desires. 

Now it’s got a hold of them. And God help them because he’s in this now. Feelings or not. Dean needs this. 

Before he steps back from Dean’s space, his best friend gives a shallow dip of his chin in a silent agreement of Cas’ statement.

Laughing low, more air than substance, Cas narrows his eyes at his friend. He brushes his fingers once through Dean’s hair. “Maybe I’ll design you a little Alice in Wonderland tattoo someday.”

Dean’s mouth curves into a timid smile. 

Not allowing himself a chance to overthink it, Castiel takes Dean’s hand in his and they start their trek home, fingers laced together. 

Soberly, Cas reminds himself this is not and cannot be a relationship. It’s just… a little bit of colour straying outside the lines. 

Sometimes messy is necessary… 

*     *     *

Dean is panicking through a haze of arousal by the time they make it home. 

Seventy-fucking-eight. 

Is precisely how many times in the span of twenty or so minutes Dean let his mind wander away from Cas’ instructions to breathe deep and hold onto some semblance of forced serenity. 

It was a struggle and he clearly lost the battle. 

Cas is right. 

Dean knew  _ exactly _ what he was doing at the bar, mouthing off at the biggest, baddest looking motherfucker in the place. No amount of Jo or Ellen, the bar’s owners, harping on him to let it go resulted in success. 

Because Dean couldn’t let it go. Not the need, not the anger, not the sadness. None of it. It was a bomb inside of him that needed to be detonated.

Whatever he could do to rile up the other guy, he went for it. Pushing and pushing until the beast of a man hauled Dean by the collar out into the alley and tossed him around before really laying into him… and that was right about the moment Cas showed up. 

And holy fuck. 

Cas barged into the scene like a goddamn epic badass. Made all the more awesome for the fact he was smaller and shorter than the other guy. Clearly not a problem. Dean’s best friend could apparently throw down with the worst of them. 

Talk about an instant turn on. Not to mention Cas shoving him up against the brick after and gripping the lower half of his face to forcibly shut him up and his sorry excuses. 

And excuses is damn well what they were. 

He’s guilty to the core now. Downright thrilled his selfish ill-advised actions brought Cas to him… and to what’s going to happen now. 

Cas told him to sit at the island and wait. 

He’s still waiting, has taken his coat off and thrown it on the floor because for  _ once _ he doesn’t fucking care. Everything inside him is all twisted and torn and he badly wants to duck out of his brain and let Cas fix whatever gears are broken in him. 

His roommate returns to the living area with a bowl of water and a wet facecloth. Cas grabs the seat he’s on and spins the stool around so Dean’s facing him, his knees parted around Cas’s thighs.

Not saying a word, Cas wipes the caked blood from Dean’s face. The cloth is scratchy and cool against his skin. He follows Cas with his eyes, watching the blue narrow with concentration. 

When he gets to the cut on the side of Dean’s jaw, he’s slow and careful. Dean hisses through a spark of pain, snagging Cas’ abrupt scrutiny.

“How come you never did anything like this in the time I’ve known you?”

Dean smirks with a bitter edge. “After high school… I, uh, kinda discovered one night stands worked pretty damn good to take the edge off I guess… and…” his voice trails off, momentarily stumped... wondering if random sex was  _ really _ the only factor. 

Sure he started having a lot of sex when he moved away from home, but the regular search for a hard fist also stopped around the time he met Cas. 

“And what?” prompts Cas. 

Shit. Dean grabs Cas’ wrist, putting a stop to the nursing action. “I don’t know. You… maybe. I think...”

Cas stares back at him, features giving nothing away. With the flick of his wrist, the wet cloth lands on the counter with a splat. 

“Before we started this…” wonders Cas, “what could I have possibly ever done to have assisted you?”

It’s not any one thing, he realizes. But a million little things. “You don’t even realize… Shit,  _ I _ didn’t even notice until I really thought about. Anytime I’m shaking my knee or getting jittery, you give me a look or you reach out and squeeze my leg or my shoulder… you just… you force whatever spring-loaded tension that’s in here”—he rubs his chest—”you just, you push it down. Somehow.”

“But it never fully goes away, does it?”

Dean shakes his head. “No. Well. Not… not until recently. Ya know...” He shrugs over the insinuation.

Sighing, notably exasperated, Cas takes Dean’s chin between his finger and thumb and tilts his head back so they’re meeting eye-to-eye. “I don’t know what I’m doing with you… the fear of losing this friendship? Dean, it—”

“Hey,” Dean licks his swollen bottom lip, trying to make Cas hear him out. “I know I’m not relationship material. But I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I don’t need this… whatever this fucking thing is between us. 

“I don’t fucking get it. I don’t get myself anymore. Why I’m like this. It’s a joke man, really. I’ve aced every test I’ve ever taken my whole life. I can tear apart an engine like it’s nothin’... I mean shit, I built a fucking radio when I was thirteen. 

“And yet… all of that… and I don’t even know myself. And trust me… I’ve tried. I’ve read books on psychology. Sam studied it back in school and you know me.” Cas nods. “I get bored or edgy and if a textbook is sittin’ right there, I’m gonna read it. But all I learned from it was that I got daddy-issues. And _please_ ,” Dean rolls his eyes. “Anyone with half a brain coulda guessed that shit. But this?” Dean pauses, searching Cas’ eyes for answers. “Whatever this is with you… whatever it’s done to me and how I am, it just confuses me. 

“Some days I wanna scream my goddamn head off… but then this shit happens with us and for the first time it’s like the nails-on-a-chalkboard feeling is temporarily gone. And I’ve had a lot of sex over the years… but, man, this is different.”

When he’s done rambling, he lets the quiet pause swim between them. He’s calmer now and he can handle the silence between his voiced uncertainty and Cas’ response. The scream inside him has been dulled. 

Surprising him, Cas grins, a small flicker of condescension. “Dean, considering your IQ and the sheer volume of porn you consume… I’m honestly shocked you haven’t already figured it out.”

Confused, he scrunches his face and gestures for Cas to elaborate. “Care to clue a guy in?”

“You’re… umm, how do I put this?” Cas takes a steadying breath and shrugs. “Dean… you have a submissive nature.”

“Submissive,” repeats Dean. Confused. 

“Yes,” Cas says slowly. “As in… you seek out and thrive from having someone else take control. Both in your regular life… and I think we can both say with certainty that you very much enjoy submitting... sexually.”

The gears grind to a halt in his head. “Huh.” 


	21. Chapter 21

Dean squints at his friend, breaks away and looks around the room, then up at the ceiling. No, no. He’s not— 

_ Is he? _

Actually, come to think of it…. yeah okay maybe…  _ maybe _ he might be. Really, all evidence points to yes. Even now, rendered totally subservient to Cas’ commands, whatever those commands might be, he’s aware of how unboundedly willing he is. 

Shit, he’s goddamn eager for it. Huh.    

“Well that’s Interesting,” he mumbles. There’s a warmth in his face, an embarrassed blush but he doesn’t know why he’s embarrassed. 

Should he be?

Fuck, this is a level of emotional complexity that far surpasses his capacity to comprehend.  What does it mean exactly? He needs details and Webster's dictionary explanations and like, fucking charts and graphs and a goddamn textbook. 

It’s not like Dean is totally naive. Cause yeah he’s watched the pornographic representation of what Cas is talking about. Obviously. But shit, it’s just so glaringly disparate from what he and Cas have been like together he never would've made the connection. Hell, his previous understanding of domination and submission was along the lines of being tied in ropes while some burly dude whips you and spits in your mouth. 

Maybe trying to solve real life dilemmas using porn as an educational tool isn’t exactly a certifiable technique for a healthy lifestyle. Probably the opposite.   

Annnd now his brain won’t stop again. 

He’s not even aware he’s shaking his knee rapidly until Cas squeezes his thigh hard enough to make him jump. 

His mouth falls open, and he stares back into Cas gorgeous blue eyes. He wants to get lost in them. 

But how the hell is he to know if that’s a result of his apparent ‘submissive’ tendencies or more basic emotions. 

Like love or some crap. 

Sporting a kind smile, Cas thumbs across his lip, using his finger under Dean’s chin to tilt his head further back. He inspects the cut with a frown. “It’s still bleeding. I’ll get a bandaid. Try not to think too much Dean… you’ll give yourself an aneurysm.”

Before Cas manages to pull away, Dean grasps a handful of his shirt. “How long have you known?”

“Um, since you blew me in the restaurant I guess.”

Dean nods, remembering with a shudder. “Yeah.” His roommate starts walking away. “Uh, Cas…”

Turning back again, Cas raises his eyebrows. “Hmm?”

“You know I don’t want to need this from you, right? I mean, I know it’s fucked. We don’t have to… ya know. I’m sure I can figure someth—”

Castiel silences him with a single penetrating look, full of dark promises. “What’s your count Dean?”

It takes him a stumbled minute through his noggin to figure out what Cas is asking. But when he does, his entire frame hardens, his spine pulling straight and his cock twitching to life. “Seventy-eight.”

With another deep frown, Cas watches him for a moment. “You know I have no real idea what I’m doing.”

Dean smiles, weirdly pleased he’s not the only one floundering to need something he doesn’t understand. “Me neither.”

“Look at us… just a couple of dumbasses.”

His roommate disappears around the corner and Dean feels a flutter in his stomach paired with an ache in his chest. 

Those pesky emotions again. 

This time he doesn’t hate them… they’re unwelcome but he can’t do anything about it. He just needs to work around them. 

Turns out he’s got some screws loose and Cas is the screwdriver. Pun intended. 

Who knows why. Maybe it was losing his parents too young. Maybe it was having to take care of his brother at such an early ege. Who the hell gives a shit why he’s turned out the way he is. Fact is… this is who he is. A man who needs loud music and tattoos and pain and brain-teasers. 

And now… evidently… a hard hand. 

Fuck. Cas is going to spank him again and he shouldn’t be so fucking hard for it. But his dick is leaking and throbbing, bulging up against his zipper. 

Cas returns and sticks a Star Wars bandaid over the cut on his face. It’s a strange prelude to a clearly intended spank session, but like Cas said… they haven’t a clue what they’re doing. 

So long as Cas is the one doing it to him, Dean is on board. 

Ready to… submit. Apparently. 

Cas takes a long slow look at him, raking his eyes up and down. “Strip off your clothes. Don’t fold them… just toss them on the floor then join me on the couch.”

Embarrassingly quick to react, Dean hops off the stool and starts tearing his clothes off. Not sparing a thought for where they land. All the while he watches Cas move over to the couch and sit down in the middle of it… as if he’s the damn king of the apartment. 

Which, right now… Dean supposes he kind of is. 

Fuckfuckfuck. Dean scratches at a patch of ink on his chest. The symbolic warding symbol.  _ Clearly _ it does  _ not _ ward against being possessed by your best friend’s erotic authority trip and their incredibly gorgeous cock. 

Naked and erect, he walks over to the couch. Standing patiently by Cas’ feet for what he should do next. 

“Lie down over me. Facedown.”

Right into the spankfest then. Jesus. Dean awkwardly drapes himself over the couch and Cas’ thighs, resting his face over his crossed forearms. He has the absurd desire to laugh, but it never manifests, just sits inside his chest as some form of delirium or elation. 

Christ, he feels like a psychologist’s wetdream.

Before any smacks and slaps, Cas’ fingers thread into his hair—soothing his nerves. He closes his eyes, relishing the way the touch calms him immediately, almost completely. He takes a deep breath and wriggles a little to get into a more comfortable groove. 

It’s so quiet, he can hear Cas’ lips spread into a smile. 

“Pretty sure the consensus here is you should say yellow to slow down… red to stop. I googled it.”

After a low chuckle, Dean breathes, “Right… sexy rules. Gotcha.” 

Cas starts off slow, smacking him lightly across his presented ass. It makes him hot, but he’s feeling more stiff than last time, overactive brain or tense body fighting his ability to just… break apart the way he did before: Utterly thoughtless, flooded with pain and heat and pleasure in a dizzying, numbing mix.

He craves that feeling again, needing it on some molecular level. As if his body was built with an ancillary basic need above oxygen, water, and food.  

“Shut your brain off,” Cas snaps, reaching over to yank on his hair. 

Dean hisses at the pain, not given a moment to recover before Cas’ hand is coming down on him hard and fast, his skin burning and itchy as the blood pools under the surface, inciting every nerve. 

He squirms, unable to help it. Whether he’s trying to break free or seek friction for his rigid, untouched cock… he’s not sure anymore. It hurts more than last time. But after a short while, he clings to the pain, to the spreading heat, letting it overtake him. 

It’s like drowning, he imagines, peaceful in a way you’d never expect.  

Dean loses track of the individuality of any one hit, he’s high as a goddamn kite and hard as stone. The pain has grown and turned to a sharp throb that makes his head spin. His cock is leaking onto Cas’ overpriced yoga pants and he doesn’t even feel a little bad about the mess he’s making. 

And he should, semen is surprisingly hard to get out of cotton. 

When it really starts to itch, he involuntarily reaches back to claw at his abused skin but Cas catches his wrists and pins them against his lower back. 

It’s then he starts to groan and whimper, mindlessly rocking his hips towards friction and away from it. Needing both simultaneously. 

Soaked in a cocktail of hormones, he loses all semblance of where or who he is. Only the abrupt surge of his orgasm crashing through his body manages to pierce the drowsy daze he’s in. 

He comes hard and fast, a piercing throb beating through his groin and his swollen cock. It erases the fire in his veins, the buzzing in his head. 

Everything is suddenly… better. 

And then he passes out. 


	22. Chapter 22

Evidently this is the new norm of their friendship, Cas decides. 

It’s not ideal, not to mention highly unorthodox. Good god, what would his parents say? They're both such sanctimonious, uncaring, narrow-minded sheep. He snorts at his desk and tries to picture that conversation. 

_ “Mother, Father… I now spank my best friend on occasion when he’s really edgy. And here you thought my being gay was blasphemy. Also I’m in love with him and he has feelings for me too but we’re going to glaringly ignore it. Sounds healthy, right?” _

Some might consider it a miracle he even has the capacity to find humour, however bitter, where his parents are concerned. Charles and Naomi are… something else. They never truly cared for him, even before they knew his sexual preference. 

And after? Immediate and total disownment. 

It warped his ability to trust for years. Until Dean came along and Cas was ultimately forced to let someone else into his paint-covered lyrical little world. Of course, he didn’t so much as let Dean in as fail to keep the metaphorical door closed. 

The man, like everything else he does, barged into their dorm room (and Cas’ life) holding a can of Redbull while yakking away on the phone with his brother about the neurological capability of the human mind to interpret a fourth dimension. 

Cas, naturally, had been breathing through a Hatha session while listening to Nirvana’s Live at Reading album. 

It was like turbulent water hitting stone. But somehow… it worked. And they became friends against the odds. 

In a way, it makes perfect sense they’ve progresses to this. That Dean uses him to crash, the hard surface against which he needs to break apart. There’s an ambiguous beauty to it. 

Several days have passed since the night he found Dean at the Roadhouse. Nothing severe or akin to the likes of what they did when they returned home has happened again. Frankly, Cas is glad for it. Dean might have enjoyed it more than he meant to, given his abrupt and rough climax… but Cas? 

For him… it was  _ intense _ . Emotions playing havoc with him. Far too much power and pleasure for someone who has arguably selfish interests. 

Dean is seeking a service from him… nothing more. 

Sliding his computer mouse to the corner of the desktop, Cas powers on his screensaver and leans back in his chair, staring up at the white ceiling. Having himself a little daydream, he remembers Dean rocking and jerking against his lap, trying ardently to grind his cock against Cas’ thighs, tears streaking over his contorted features, running in wet little streaks down the bridge of his nose. The vibrant red of his ass a backdrop for barely-there welts in the rough shape of Cas’ fingers. 

The artist in him loved every splash of colour on Dean’s body. From the vivid scarlet of his ass, to the whitish swollen areas, the speckling of brown freckles… oh, and the captivating dimples just above his hip bones. 

Fucking stunning. 

Truly, nothing compares to having Dean give himself over with such complete trust. Especially with the knowledge that Cas has zero experience on the matter. 

It’s frightening. No one should trust another person that way. But he’s selfishly pleased anyway. 

Castiel stretches his arms over his head, cracking his neck in the process. For the first time in a while, he has the urge to write again. The urge strikes him like this on occasion, a nagging need to spit out whatever scene is trapped in his head. 

He straightens his chair and taps his mouse to enter his password. 

In the blink of an eye, he’s written an entire chapter of emotionally-steeped porn which comes off very alarmingly like love-making and by the time he posts it…  it’s already past four o’clock. 

Just as he’s closing down his open programs, Dean saunters into his side of the office. 

“Hey… ready to head out?”

Cas stands from his chair, mind still slightly askew with a splattering of desires and worries in equal measure. 

“Yep.”

Half their crew has already left so they say their goodbyes to the ones still working and step out into the sleet-covered streets. Instead of taking the subway or a cab, they decide to walk. It’s a long walk, but he knows they’ll stop somewhere along the way and grab take-out somewhere. 

For a few blocks they talk about work, a mini office meeting between the two of them. Running through various deadlines and issues with clients. 

Cas watches Dean’s profile as he gets into a rant about people thinking they can take over running a website once it’s been set up. 

“... always fuck things up,” Dean goes on, “every goddamn time. I mean, shit dude. Just because a plugin looks cool does not mean it works with your fucking theme jackass.”

“You know they’re just trying to save themselves a few bucks,” Cas argues.

Dean pffts. “Fat lotta good that does. They mangle things up and then come crying back to us to fix it and then I’m stuck pouring over someone’s poorly executed code trying to find the needle in the haystack of where it all went wrong.”

He smiles at Dean. “Poor you… life is so rough.”

Grinning back, Dean teases, “Isn’t it, though? So I’m feeling burgers… you in the mood for burgers?”

With an internal groan, Cas wishes Dean would consider at least  _ trying _ a vegetarian restaurant. No doubt it would do his heart some good. “Why not? I haven’t yet had a coronary today.”

Dean snorts and walks sideways to face him. “You and your damn sass. Alright… I’ll bite—What do you want to eat instead? And if you say salad… I’m getting a goddamn costco sized bottle of lysol and going to town on your bedroom. Privacy be damned!”

Moving quickly and on impulse, Cas pushes Dean over to the side, cornering him into the closed entrance of a shop. Ironically… a sex shop. Sometimes the universe can be  _ so _ on point. 

“If only I could simply spank the bad habits out of you.”

Dean’s already rosy cheeks from the cold flare a brighter crimson. “W-what?” he mumbles shakily, testing Cas. “You sayin’ if I eat from a greasy dive you’ll throw me over your knee?”

“Something like that.”

Searching for some witty comeback, Dean breaks eye contact to let his gaze wander, settling on the types of product displayed in the window. “Compared to  _ that _ ,” he says, voice raised and a little shocked, “getting spanked by you for eating beef is a cakewalk.”

Cas follows the direction of Dean’s widened stare to see a theatrically large dildo. 

“A cakewalk?” he echoes, stepping a little closer to his roommate, eyebrows raised challengingly. Remembering the last time, and Dean’s reaction, a cakewalk seems underrated. 

Dean licks across his bottom lip and shifts his weight. “Yeah okay,” he surrenders. “Point made.”

They resume their walk to the restaurant, both of them ignoring the electric vibe that comes along with openly discussing the strange thing they’ve belly-flopped into. Graceless and unskilled. He and Dean have remained best friends, roommates, and fully-functioning business partners. But now, there’s a little scribble in the corner, a dash of colour sprinkled over their intertwined lives. 

They’ve been through many other changes, this peculiar facet is just one other alteration. Dean needs to be… manually shut down every once in a while. Surely, Cas can handle this without letting his feelings ruin it. 

He has to. 

Taking the right precautions, he’s been researching a little about their unique dynamic. He wants to make sure he goes about it properly in the future. Never wanting to hurt Dean or abuse his trust out of simple ignorance. 

Part of him wonders if Dean’s been researching too. No doubt he has… it’s Dean, after all. But the man hasn’t said a word about it. 

That alone is interesting. 

At the burger joint, reluctantly, they place their orders for dinner and as they’re waiting, Dean’s eyes narrow with recognition as he looks through the tables at another man. 

Cas has a flicker of recognition as well but can’t place him. Thick frame, southern vibe with a days old scruff. Sporting a vintage fisherman’s hat and a thick navy peacoat. If Cas wrote him into a story, he’d be some southern debutante’s torrid affair. 

“Who is that?”

Dean pulls out of a trance and meets Cas’ eyes. “Benny, I think. But shit… he looks like death warmed over.”

Yes, that’s it—Benny Lafitte, the guy who used to work at the shop where Dean takes his Harley. Supposedly he hasn’t been there in a year. When Dean asked the shop owner, a gruff older croak named Bobby, the man said he hadn’t a clue what happened. Just that Benny up and stopped coming to work. Couldn’t find him at his apartment. Gone into ether. 

Or he was...

“You should go talk to him,” suggests Cas.

Dean nods quietly. “Yeah. Wonder why he just ditched Bobby like that?”

“Ask him.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean mutters, “Smartass,” under his breath as he walks over to the other table at the back of the restaurant. 

Watching with unshakeable curiosity, but sadly out of earshot, Cas can tell whatever Benny is relaying to Dean is something profoundly displeasing. He’s not just sad… but utterly morose and lifeless. Cas ultimately breaks away from watching the emotions on the other man’s face to see Dean. 

Compassion is written across his features. His light brown eyebrows pulled in, cheeks tight with discomfort. At a lull in their conversation, Dean looks off with a minute shake of his head. And then suddenly he’s turning and their eyes meet. 

Cas has been on the receiving end of Dean’s stare thousands of times if not more. 

This is different than any other. 

He can’t put a finger on why, but Dean is watching him with questions and confusion. But there’s something else, and it reminds Cas of the looks Dean gets when he’s seconds away from solving a troublesome code or equation. 

The brink of an epiphany. 

Castiel shifts in the hard chair, unable to break away from Dean’s sudden intensity. Something has happened and he has no idea what it is. All the chatter and noise of the burger joint is dulled to a murmur like he’s underwater. 

He has no concept of how long they go on looking at each other. But then the spell is broken. Benny is placing a friendly hand on Dean’s arm, pulling his attention away and a loud young man shouts “ _ Fifty-four!” _ and Cas stares down at his receipt; it’s their number.


	23. Chapter 23

It’s two in the morning the night before their Christmas party and Dean feels like he hasn’t slept in a week.

Not since he ran into Benny. God, the poor guy. Lost his wife in a goddamn car accident about a year ago. Benny said he totally fell apart for months afterward. Could barely function, got addicted to drugs for a while. Though he said he’s been doing better, the raw pain in his face, etched into every line was hard to see. 

As they talked through his tragedy, and Benny mentioned his regret over cutting Bobby out like that—a man who’d been more a father to him than his own, Dean found himself nodding along in lieu of knowing what to say but ultimately glad to know Benny had a friend to talk to. Sounded like he’d really been in need of one. 

They even made plans to meet up again for beers soon. 

Although, it wasn’t the story necessarily or the unhappy reunion with the man that’s shaken Dean up. It’s what he said. 

Dean has the words burned into memory. “ _ You know what I miss the most,”  _ he’d said. “ _ What the hardest thing was about getting over losing her… it was not having her to talk to about my day anymore. The one person who’d always been there… always listenin’ to me chatterin’ on ‘bout nothin’ ya know. How she’d hug me on them real shit days and laugh at my stories and stuff. She was my comfort… the way I could relax… that woman calmed every worry in my life, ya know... And now?”  _

Benny never continued his thought, no point. Dean could easily guess how horrible in comparison life would be for him now. Compared to what he had. 

The thorn in Dean’s side is that all the while Benny spoke… talking about the love of his life and what she was to him, what he misses most about her… was painfully similar to what Cas is to him. 

Dean goes to his best friend for everything. Any little anecdote about his life always falls on Cas’ waiting ears. They share everything. Even before he knew it, Cas has always been the one to smooth out his neurotic idiosyncrasies. 

Given the new twist on things? 

There isn’t any possible way Dean could survive without the guy. Not now. He’s everything. Every metaphorical box a significant other is supposed to have checked… Cas checks those boxes. Each and every one. 

Cas is the guy Dean has built his entire life around. His livelihood, sanity, and pleasure are all wrapped up in him. 

Fuck. 

Staring at the ceiling, Dean muddles over a recurring thought. It’s a bomb of revelations. Maybe it shouldn’t be… but then again, Dean is mildly stunted in the emotions and relationships department. 

Heck, he hasn’t ever said I love you to his own brother. Can’t remember saying it to his parents… save for once or twice at their graves. Which, arguably, shouldn’t count. That’s like cheating. 

So, naturally, it’s a little shocking to think Cas might have grown to be the love of his life or some crap and he hasn’t even known it. 

Really. What’s wrong with him? 

How did he miss something so painfully obvious? The idea of losing Cas… in any capacity, causes a piercing pain to burn across his chest. It’s been happening more and more. He starts thinking in circles. Asking himself question after question, running through endless scenarios. 

What if something ever happened to Cas? And Dean lost him forever and all they ever were was all that they are now? Ah… ya see, he winces. There’s the pain again. Not only would he be losing Cas, he’d lose all the things he never got, all the things he never let himself wonder about before, never let himself decide if it was what he might want. 

But he’s thinking now. He can’t  _ stop _ thinking.

And he wants it. He wants everything and all of it and being denied half the picture of an awesome life is no way to go forward. How things are now is no longer the neat unemotional construct he wanted it to be… it’s messy. A scribble of an unfinished masterpiece. Like something Cas sketched and deemed he was unhappy with, tossing it away. 

Well fuck. Dean isn’t about to be tossed away. No thank you. Maybe he doesn’t want an apple pie life, in the whole context of babies and farmers markets and the whole Sam and Jess version of happily ever after. But he sure as shit wants to be waking up with Cas beside him every morning. 

Even if that means succumbing to an existence of perpetually unclean floors and come-stained linens because the man hardly washes a fucking sheet!

And still!  _ And still!  _ Dean loves him. He  _ loves  _ him. How had he not known that before? 

“What the fuck,” Dean breathes into the silence of his room. He throws his arms back and accidentally punches the wall, a double sharp crack of his knuckles echoing through the apartment. 

Shit. 

Hopefully he didn’t wake Cas up. Dean might be barreling towards some great big life decision and all, but he’s not the type to go half-cocked into a confession or proposition of any sort. Hmm, he’s gonna need to talk to his brother. Figure this whole ‘Hey Cas, I love you’ thing out. 

What are the odds? Perpetual single man Dean Winchester, certified genius, takes nearly a decade to find out he’s in love with his best friend. 

It’s not even a little funny. His intellect is seriously butthurt. Ugggh, fucking hell. Working out this problem would be easier if he could get some shut eye, but noooo—

“Dean?”

Bolting up into a sitting position, Dean looks through the shadows to his bedroom door to find Cas standing there sporting a confused squint and his trademark head-tilt. His dark hair is a gravity-defying mess, boxers half slid down his hips. Dean can’t make out the detail of his arm sleeve but the contrast of dark art and smooth skin takes Dean’s breath away.

The man is goddamn perfection.

“Can’t sleep,” he mutters. Definitely not elaborating on the why.

“I know,” Cas groans, his impatience clear. “It’s been days now… what’s going on?”

Offering a shrug, Dean stares down at his hands on the comforter. “Mind’s racing again.” It’s not a lie. 

With those words, Cas’ expression changes from annoyed to compassionate. Full of understanding. He looks down at Dean and without even a twitch of his lips or a raise of his brow, it’s clear in the silence he’s asking Dean if he needs  _ it _ … the particular type of thing Cas has agreed to give him.  

They haven’t discussed parameters or rules beyond the prototypical green, yellow, red. Dean trusts Cas. And all the research he’s done since their last little spank session has only fortified his opinion that Cas doesn’t need to know rhyme and verse of the whole kinky workings of the underworld to understand what Dean needs and what his limits are.

After a too long minute, not sure if he should give in considering the state of his newly discovered feelings, Dean caves.

Fuck reservations. 

Saying no to Cas isn’t an option. It occurs to him how utterly unable to deny Cas he is. There’s some default factory setting in him that seems to require Cas taking and shaping him, controlling him. 

Finally looking up, Dean finds Cas’ eyes. Registering how severely exhausted he is, he nods anyway. He doesn’t know what to expect. Is spanking the default here? Who the hell knows. That’s for Cas to decide. 

His roommate walks over, dragging up his lopsided boxers and climbs partly onto Dean’s bed, close enough to grasp Dean by the chin and force them eye-to-eye, a sparse few inches between them. 

“Come with me…”

Those three simple words unwind the tension in his muscles more than anything else has over the last few days. Dean sighs and follows Cas out of his room. They walk through the dark to the living room. Lights from cars passing on the street below flash across the window. 

Dean lumbers behind his friend, a tired smile on his mouth at the bat symbol splayed across Cas’ ass. They’re not even his own boxers, they’re Dean’s. Or they were about two years ago. 

“You need new underwear,” he mentions.

Cas rounds back and gives him a displeased frown, head cocked to the side, brows raised. 

“I’ll shut up,” mumbles Dean, eyes lowering to the floor. 

After telling him to stay put, Cas disappears back down the hall and returns with something in his hands Dean can’t see clearly. It looks like dark bunched fabric. Then he notices a hanging strip. 

Ties. A few of them. 

“On your knees.” Cas gestures to the yoga mat as he unwinds the crumpled tie collection and drapes them over his open hand.

Heart beating hard in his chest, Dean follows the directions without a word. It’s quieter in the apartment this late at night, and seemingly worse now than ever. On his knees, toes untucked, he waits impatiently. Breaths starting to catch in his throat. 

Cas runs his fingers up Dean’s neck and into the back tufts of his hair, scraping along his scalp. Dean’s eyes fall shut and he sways unsteadily with a buzz of fatigue. The same buzz that’s prevented him from actually falling asleep. 

The need is there, under his skin and in his cells but he’s gone too long. He’s so overtired he can’t relax. 

After several minutes, and nearly being put into a coma, Cas’ touch vanishes and Dean hears himself whimper and whine, nearly a sob making through. He’s so tired. It’s hitting him like bricks. 

“Sshh,” Cas brushes his thumb over Dean’s mouth. He tucks his index inside Dean’s mouth and forcibly pushes down on his jaw. Dean’s cock gives an interested surge, filling quick, making him moan in a broken whimper yet again. 

“I’m going to tie you up, okay? Hands, feet. And if you’re willing… a blindfold and gag too. And all I want you to do is relax into the restraints, take comfort in the fact that you can’t move and can only sit here… and breathe.”

Dean opens his mouth, a question hanging on his tongue.

“And no,” Cas answers without him even spitting a syllable, “no need to count. We won’t be doing that tonight. Tomorrow will be a long enough day as it is.”

Fuck, the party. He managed to forget. Heeding Cas’ recommendations and entirely trusting him, he whispers, “Okay,” opening his eyes to peer into Cas’ dark, shaded blue. “Whatever you want.”

Some tender emotion flashes in Cas’ eyes. “Whatever you need,” he answers. 

Dean swallows, one thought plastered across his mind.  _ I need you.  _ He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t need to. 

Moving slowly, making sure Dean is aware of what he’s doing as he’s doing it, Cas binds Dean’s hands behind his back, his forearms pressed together. Next, Cas drags his ankles closer and ties them too, close enough that if Dean tried to stand, he’d fall on his face. Probably smoke the corner of the desk in the process and knock himself out. 

Dean spreads his knees and sinks back against his bound heels. It makes the untouched hard presence of his cock blaringly obvious to both of them. He’s both happy he sleeps naked and feels mortifyingly on display. 

Though given the swell of his dick, his subconscious is loving it. Dick likes the front stage apparently. 

Cas kneels in front of him, two more ties in his hands. One has cats on it… because Cas is strange like that. Dean would laugh normally, but there’s no humour in him at all. Instead he finds it endearing, another quirk about Cas he loves. 

Loves.  _ Fuck.  _

You know what? Dean hates cats. But if Cas ever begged for a kitten Dean would probably cave. Of course he’d have to buy one of those half a grand self-cleaning litters or train the feline to use the toilet. 

Startling Dean, Cas grasps around his throat. “No more thinking. You’re burning yourself out.”

He swallows against the pressure, feels the strain in his thighs as he unwittingly curls his hips up, his dick swaying back and forth, denied friction. Achingly hard and stiff, precome trails down the shaft. 

Cas notices with a downward flick of his gaze. He takes one of the ties, stretches it between both hands and drags the flat side roughly against Dean’s leaking cockhead. Having gone without his nightly porn for a few days now, the sudden touch is hypersensitive and he jerks in place, hissing through his teeth. 

After using the silky, cat-patterned tie to mop up the available precome covering his dick, Cas raises it to Dean’s lips and holds it close. “Open up.”

Dean’s breath stalls in his lungs and he lets out an obscene moan, heat flaring across his chest and down his stomach. He parts his lips and makes a low pathetic, wanton noise when Cas settles the tie between his teeth and reaches around to knot it against the back his head, the fabric pulling tightly against the hollow of his cheeks, digging into the corners of his mouth.

He can feel the drool pooling under his tongue and tries to swallow, finding it isn’t easy. 

“Okay?”

Dean nods, starting to sway again. Exhaustion and arousal pulling him apart. 

In a sweet gesture, Cas cradles the side of his face and leans in. He kisses Dean’s forehead and a sob nearly cuts through him but he bites down on the gag to keep it in. Next thing he knows, the world is going completely black… and just when he was adjusting to the dimness of the night. 

Being bound, gagged, and now robbed of sight, a prickle of panic starts to unfurl in his head. Vulnerability blooming and making his head spin. But before he really starts to unravel, before his breath starts to wheeze up and down his throat, Cas’ hands cup his jaw and tilt his head back. 

He knows Cas is standing now. His roommate grazes Dean’s bottom lip. “You’re okay, Dean. I want you to breathe, let the blackness surround you and calm you. Make it your whole world… no thoughts, no worries, no questions. I’m leaving the room to go and fill up the bath. And yes,” Cas says sternly, “you’re taking a bath. No protests.”

Dean doesn’t nod or respond, he’s beyond words and seems only capable of feeling the warmth of Cas’ touch on his skin. 

How has he lived without this?

Cas scratches through Dean’s hair for a few lingering seconds, and then with a softly spoken, “I’ll be right back,” he’s gone, the soft pad of his bare feet moving across the hardwood and away from Dean. 

In the utter silence of his roommates departure, Dean can’t help but wriggle and twist, testing the strength of Cas’ knots. They’re good. 

He can’t move. Not a lot anyway. Also… he can’t see, can’t even swallow properly or close his jaw. Time passes without any measure except the sound of his heart, thumping steadily away behind his ribs. He hears it louder than any traffic noise coming from outside. 

He can feel the flow of drafty air on his skin, the dry heat from the radiator a few feet away. It feels nice against his side. Dean closes his eyes. There’s no difference when he does. It’s all just penetrating blackness. 

Sinking further into the stretch, his hips and knees bearing the weight of his body, Dean takes a deep shaky breath. Then another. And a few more. He chases every exhale with another inhale, focusing on one at a time, being proud of himself that he’s moving through each breath without stopping to lose himself in useless head games. 

The rush of running water is a whisper in the background, lulling him deeper into a half state of consciousness. He’s no longer hard, or not fully hard anyway. But he can still taste the slightly bitter flavour of himself when his tongue catches at the damp fabric of the tie. 

It’s only when he starts to fall over, about to pass right out on the hardwood floor that Cas’ hands are on his bare shoulders, the man’s hands a little damp.

“Hmm,” Dean mumbles, barely awake. 

“Okay,” Cas says soothingly, his voice a low rumble worming through Dean’s chest. 

He’s only dimly aware of Cas unknotting his binds. Sluggish and dizzy, Dean grumbles nonsense as Cas hooks an arm under his and hoists him to his feet. His knees feel like jello and he chuckles, his head falling forward and bonking against Cas’ warm, naked shoulder. 

Dean kisses it without thinking. Tired, lazy lips grazing along the smooth, warm expanse of flesh. 

Both of them ignore the moment of affection and stumble down the hall. Suddenly he’s sitting in a hot bath, and there’s goddamn candles flickering on the counter, a couple on the toilet lid and even two in each far corner of the bathtub on the little curved ledge. 

He blearily looks up at his roommate, an  _ I love you _ burning in the back of his throat. He tries to speak but feels choked by the things he can’t say. Cas frowns and moves the candles off the toilet to take a seat, he reaches over and pets through Dean’s hair.

“Fall asleep… it’s okay. I’ll get you into bed.”

Dean grouses, voice slurring, “Too heavy…”

“You should stop eating burgers then,” Cas smirks down at him, teasing. 

He huffs a laughing snort and sinks further into the water. The liquid heat making every muscle melt. Even his dick is totally flaccid now, ready for sleep just like the rest of him. He closes his eyes and is snoring in seconds. 


	24. Chapter 24

Fuck mornings.

Cas silences his eight o’clock alarm, knowing he’s supposed to get up and reluctantly help Charlie get the party favours together. He promised weeks ago, but after only getting into bed somewhere around three-thirty last night he’s more zombie than human.

Reaching over, he snags his phone and places a call to Meg.

“What’s up, buttercup?”

Cas groans. How is such a thorny dark woman so fucking chipper at eight in the goddamn morning. “You want some extra cash?”

“Depends. I sort of run a successful business, Clarence… don’t really need extra dough.”

He sighs and rolls over, reaching down lazily to hike his boxers back up his hips. “I was supposed to go help an employee get things ready for the Christmas party tonight—are you still planning to attend?”

He hears her smack her lips. “Of course. I got three new clients at your last party.”

Very true. Meg certainly has a way with people. “Mind showing up… about twelve hours early? Ish?”

With a gruff curse into the phone, she asks, “What the hell for?”

“Do my job for me? Getting a few party favours together. I’ll pay you. Exorbitantly.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

Oh, where to begin. “I’m preoccupied,” he snaps.

“Fucking Dean?”

Growling, he fumbles back onto his side and shoves the phone under his ear. “No. And I believe we decided this was none of your business.”

“Whatever, sweetheart. You pay me good _and_ let me at that ankle of yours soon… we got some inking up to do.”

He breathes a relieved laugh into the phone. “Deal.” Cas quickly relays the details and wonders exactly how well Charlie and Meg will get along. He’s not even sure they’ve met. Both attended last year’s party but Charlie had wound up playing a drinking game with Ash, and Meg cornered every one of their clients.

Not one of them seemed as though they minded being trapped by a petite, tattoo-covered, dark-haired wonder of a woman.

If Cas were straight, he imagines Meg would be his type. A little weird, kind of rough and complicated. Hmmm.. sort of like Dean, he muses, rolling his eyes sarcastically.

After Cas put him to bed, Dean snored like a tractor nearly all night. Not surprising considering he’d barely slept all week. God only knows why. He’s been off ever since he ran into Benny. Cas hasn’t a clue why and sees the whole thing as a bit of a land mine.

He’s not ready to get blown up yet.

Pulling the blankets back up to his chest, he snuggles into the well-used sheets, ignoring the wrinkles and falls back into a heavy sleep.

 

When he wakes again, it’s brighter. Snow is falling heavily beyond the window. Thick, fat flakes that will surely blanket the city in several inches of chaos. He stretches out and is surprised there’s no coffee on his nightstand.

Dean must still be out of it.

Sluggishly, Cas shoves the duvet and sheet off his body and swings his legs to the side. He looks at his ankle and wiggles his foot. “Ink for you soon.”

Rubbing the crud from his eyes, he stumbles into the bathroom to relieve himself and then walks to Dean’s room.

The sight is both beautiful and funny. Dean is starfished across the bed, on his back. Brazenly naked. Tattoos looking exquisite against the white snowfall-filtered sunlight beaming in through the window.

If they were together, Cas would crawl into bed with him. Maybe wake him up with a blowjob.

_If…_

But Dean can’t handle relationships. And Cas doesn’t want to lose what little he has in his life to begin with. So the _if_ will always be a never.

Castiel scratches at the mess of his hair and lingers only a few seconds longer before he stumbles to the kitchen to drink a gallon of coffee.

*    *    *

It’s a struggle to break through to consciousness.

Dean slowly became aware of the humming of electricity in his apartment, but he can’t yet seem to open his eyes or move a single muscle.

He used to be so regimented. Alarm. Get out of bed, coffee… etcetera. Now he’s as disheveled and discombobulated as everyone else. Before he knows it he’ll be throwing his clothes on the floor like Cas does.

Mmngnh. Cas.

Last night comes flying back to him, the details foggy but no less gratifying. Cas takes care of him. And he should be ashamed or guilty of needing it, but Cas makes it okay. When it should be weird, it’s simply… not.

For once their roles are reversed. He smells the coffee before Cas enters the room. Still clad in last night’s batman boxers. Holding two cups of coffee, he leans against the doorjamb of Dean’s room and smiles softly.

“Sleep well?”

Dean feels a twinge of shyness, of all things. He rubs down his face, hiding a little, and then answers, “Like a fucking rock.”

“Well you snored like a chainsaw.”

Shit. “Sorry, man.”

Cas shrugs, pushing off the wall to bring Dean his daily fuel. “Ready for the party?”

Is he ever. “Do we have to go?” he groans.

Taking a sip of his coffee, Cas smirks into the cup. Steam rises up and blurs the lines of his face. “Seeing as we own the business we should probably make an appearance.”

“Damn.”

“Indeed.”

Feeling the need to thank his friend or something, Dean twists his lips and digs through his brain for the right thing to say. “So, uh… about last night—”

Cas places the coffee on the nightstand and reaches over, covering both of Dean’s hands where he’d been pulling at a thread in his sheet. “It’s okay. I’m here whenever you need me.”

He offers a sheepish grin. “Down the rabbit hole, huh?” he mutters, echoing Cas’ former statement.

“Evidently.”

“Hmm,” he hums, drinking his hot coffee and turning to stare out the window. He remembers last year's Christmas Party. “Planning on any snow angels this year?”

Cas chuckles. “Yes, yes, I was drunk.”

“So, so drunk,” Dean emphasizes. “Does that mean you’re gonna avoid the booze this year, Saint Novak?”

Flashing Dean a grimace, Cas rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid. Drinking is necessary at work functions… with the people and small talk.”

“Aww,” Dean pets his arm. “Social activity! The horror!”

“You don’t like it either.”

Dean grins. “Meh, I’m a charmer. I get by.” He winks, knowing he’s being flirty and decides he doesn’t care.

Unfortunately, Cas isn’t having it. “I’m going to finish getting ready and head into the office for a bit. Are you planning to stop by?”

He’s tempted to dodge the question, wondering if Cas can see right through him. “Uh, nah, actually I’m gonna go see my brother for a bit.”

“Won’t he be at the party tonight?”

Fuck. Yes, Sam will be at the party. But at the party where Cas happens to be is really not the place Dean plans to engage his brother in a highly uncomfortable and very un-Dean-like type of conversation about feelings and love-related crap.  

“Yeah, of course. But he, uh, asked me to come over anyway. Not sure why.” Didn’t he used to be a good liar? Why is he feeling sweaty all of a sudden? Jesus.

“Okay, well, tell him and Jess I say hello. Guess I’ll see you tonight.”

Dean nods. “Yup…”


	25. Chapter 25

Dean is tipsy and feeling good. Excited about… impending future prospects.

Everyone at the party is dancing and having a good time and despite Becky giving the stink eye to Sam’s fiancee and Dean having to get Charlie to tell the eccentric blonde to cool her heels, everything is going okay. 

After a painfully awkward conversation with his brother,  _ and _ his brother’s fiancee—which happened to turn into what felt very much like an interrogation—Dean has a decent handle on what to do about the whole Cas situation. 

It’s perfect, because it’s simple. Why go for the long answer when the short one will do, right?

Right now, Dean sees Cas across the dimly lit party room, sipping his drink and surveying the crowd. Meg is beside him, leaning casually against his side. By the looks they keep trading, and the way she flicks her gaze over to Dean every so often it’s damn obvious both Cas and himself have gone behind each others backs to talk to her about their peculiar situation. 

Their freaking tattoo artist. Who might also be their couples therapist, he thinks humorously. 

Dean snorts. God, it’s like high school. Took him a dozen years to get here, but he’s finally knee-deep in the drama and this time without violence. Unless spanking counts. 

Man, talk about personal growth or what. 

Dean’s always lived a certain life, his days the same, routines unchanged. And now? He’s in love, giddy, confused, and found out he likes getting spanked and tied up. And fuck, when Cas is rough about it and pain rips through Dean alongside the pleasure, he’s soaring. 

Guess he’s partly a masochist too. It’s all very interesting, very HBO-esque. 

Dean senses his brother’s height and heft step up beside him before he turns. Plus, Sam has worn the same cologne since he was fourteen. To be fair, Dean has the same one. Pi by Givenchy. Dean bought it ‘cause he was a nerd, and Sam stole Dean’s because he was a little brat. 

“Shit. I can’t believe you’re fucking in love with someone.”

Dean raises his eyebrows agreeably. “You and me both, brother.”

“No offence, but… you gonna be able to get the words out?”

That one’s a mystery for sure. “Do my best.”

Sam places a hand theatrically over his heart. “I’m so proud.”

“Fuck off,” he grumbles.

With a laugh, Sam elbows him. “Jerk.”

Dean snorts. “Bitch.”

 

By the time one a.m. rolls around, Dean’s buzz has trickled to a low hum under his skin; he can feel it but he’s able to think… and he  _ needs _ to be able to think because he’s about to do something that scares the life out of him. 

People have begun to take off for home or private little after-parties. Dean has been watching a few interesting developments over the course of the evening. The first being Cas’ frequent returns to the open bar, and the most surprising of events would be what’s surely going on in the coat room. 

Dean took a little walk over about an hour ago to find Charlie and Meg grinding against a sea of coats. He smothered a chuckle, wondering what hope those two had of finding something real. He never would’ve pictured them as a couple, but he’s been surprised a lot lately in the relationship department. 

It’s still snowing when they leave, a little more faint than earlier this morning. Or, yesterday morning he supposes. 

As Dean hoped, Cas insists on walking around Central Park. For once, Dean sees the beauty in all of it. Despite the dark and the cold. All his experiences with Cas lately have been an eye-opener and he no longer looks at the world through a cynical filter. 

Fact is, he’s the happiest he’s been in a long while. There’s a measure of calm inside his soul he knows is all from Cas.

Dean is reflective and quiet as they walk, mostly watching his roommate stumble and sing and be his weird messy self. 

They come to a stop near a clump of evergreens. Cas sighs, his profile backlit by a lamp along the walkway, fucking beautiful as he turns his face up to the sea of falling snow against the black backdrop of the night. 

Dean’s never quite looked at his best friend this way before. Under the full weight of his emotions, of his intentions. As if he’s looking through a different set of eyes. Cas is unfathomably stunning, gorgeous the way a clear night is. Not like the sun, he thinks. A sun is too bright, always the same round shape. Castiel brings Dean the kind of serenity that can only be found on quiet still nights. And somehow, he still manages to be this incredibly complex, dynamic person, a total badass and yet kind and generous, ever changing and growing.

As Dean expects, Cas turns and grins at him. A mischievous glint in the drunken blue of his eyes. 

“Don’t do it,” Dean threatens. 

“Or what?”

Dean jumps a step forward, laughing when Cas stumbles backward and nearly falls. “Or maybe I’ll bend  _ you _ over  _ my _ knee.”

His roommate has the audacity to laugh. “I’d love to see you try,  _ boy _ ,” he grumbles, voice hard and rough and downright dirty. 

And doesn’t that just go right to a man’s dick. Dean never thought he’d enjoy being called a  _ boy _ , but it doesn’t sound as weird as he might’ve expected. Once again, Cas has a way of setting Dean’s blood to boil. 

While the arousal in the cold night air of a mostly empty Central Park is nice, Dean has other—less salacious—plans for the evening. 

With a playful smile, Cas stretches his arms out and tilts his head. He gives Dean a wink. Before Dean has the chance to dodge forward, Cas is falling back into the snow. His body crunches into the hard-packed blanket of white. 

At first he doesn’t move, he just lies there and stares up at the sky. Snowflakes land on his cheeks and against part of his neck the scarf isn’t covering. 

“You’re gonna get a cold,” he tells Cas. 

In a very mature response, his friend sticks out his tongue and immediately starts to pinwheel his arms and legs. Dean moves closer and stands over him, his cold hands stuffed into his dress pants pockets. Looking down at Cas like this, being free and silly, he can’t help but smile. 

His love for Cas is fierce in that moment, like there’s a tight band around his chest ready to snap. 

“Can I ask you something?” says Cas, his flailing limbs going still. 

“Yes,” Dean answers, “You  _ will _ get hypothermia.”

His best friend chuckles carelessly, pushing up and leaning back on his arms. Quieting his laughter, he gives Dean a long serious once-over. “Dean, have I… has anything we’ve done… been… too much?”

It’s the first time Cas has ever looked worried, truly worried. “No,” Dean vehemently shakes his head. “Never.”

“Would you tell me? If it was… if you were uncomfortable? I need to know before we… before this continues.”

Dean sighs and realizes how much more complicated this is. He wants everything with Cas, but having this other thing between them makes him doubt himself. “Cas,” he says the man’s name softly. “I would. I promise.”

Cas considers his answer, measuring its truth before he nods. 

“C’mon,” Dean reaches down and pulls Cas to his feet.

His best friend is covered in little patches of clumped snow. Wetness soaked through the bottom of his pants. It’s a good thing he’s got his long beige peacoat. Dean walks around him, brushing the snow off his jacket and away from his neck. He wishes his hands weren’t cold so he could better feel the buried warmth of Cas’ skin. 

Instead of stumbling back to the salted walkway, Dean steps close and frames Cas’ rosy-cheeked face with his hands.

Here we go.  

The gesture, of course, is blatant, roaring with significance Cas obviously wasn’t expecting and definitely not ready for. It has no basis in Dean’s usual need. This, they both know, is different. 

Castiel sobers in an instant, the glee wiped from his features. He blinks in confusion, eyes flicking down to Dean’s lips. 

“Cas,” whispers Dean, thumbing across his cheeks. He steps closer, their jackets grazing. He can almost feel Cas’ body heat. 

Cas’ voice is weak, thready. “Dean...wh-what are you doing?”

Using the hold on Cas’ face, Dean tilts his chin up a fraction and inches closer, hearing a soft barely-there whisper of his name in warning. “You know exactly what I’m doing,” he replies. 

Dimly, Cas shakes his head and starts to back up. But Dean follows him too easily, not letting the space between them grow bigger. When Cas’ footsteps trip up over the snow, Dean throws an arm behind his back. 

WIth a  _ whumpf  _ they collide against the bark of a tree, all the air rushing out of Cas’ mouth and warming Dean’s lips. 

“Cas, I—” Dean abruptly stops and lowers his forehead to rest against Cas’. Their skin is cold, their breath white and puffing between them. He feels a tremor run through his best friend’s frame but can’t be sure of the cause. Cold. Anticipation. Both?

“You what?” mumbles Cas, looking up at Dean through the fan of his lashes. Bits of snow clinging to them. 

“I’m… having a difficult moment here… just, give me a minute.” Dean lowers his touch from Cas’ cheek to the warmer curve of his throat. The man’s pulse is racing. Dean thumbs down over his Adam’s apple, feeling him swallow his nerves. 

“Dean, please… this is a terrible—”

Huffing with impatience, Dean places a finger over Cas’ lips to silence them. “I said I need a minute. Let me get this out and then you can argue with me after.”

Castiel presses his chapped lips together, nods with a shallow dip of his chin and waits. 

It takes Dean a pathetically long time to get his tongue and throat working again; he hangs onto the moment of forced intimacy, to their shared breath, and the feel of Cas’ pulse beating under his fingers. 

Dean wants to worship him. 

Plain and simple. He wants to love Cas the way the man deserves to be loved. With devotion and playfulness and patience and everything naughty and mundane. From having brunch on Sunday afternoons at some gag-inducing romantic restaurant on eighty-sixth street, to getting stripped down, tied up and spanked all the way to heaven. 

Cas shifts his weight, starting to chew at his lips. They’ll be even more chapped than ever. A kiss would help that, he thinks, smiling. 

It’s a flicker, but Cas smiles back. 

Dean uses it as the courage he needs to break the silence. He takes Cas’ face between his freezing cold hands and guides his head back so their eyes meet, no real space between them. 

“I, uh…” he swallows, searching Cas’ dark blue eyes for his future. “Fuck… I love you,” he spits out, shrugging to express his utter and complete helplessness to the emotion. “Goddammit Cas, I fucking love you. I’m in love with you and I don’t understand it and I don’t know what to do about it other than this—”

Closing the remaining ghostly breath of air between them, Dean kisses Castiel. 

Their cool lips fuse together, dry and chapped. Not the perfection he ever expected or wanted, and yet it’s exactly the way it should be. 

Dean breathes into the kiss, parting his lips to first kiss over Cas’ upper lip… then his bottom one. He kisses him with reverence and hope, ignoring the ache in his chest because Cas isn’t responding the way he hoped. 

“Please,” Dean whimpers, kissing him again. With each break he takes between soft desperate pecks, he looks over Cas’ face; blue eyes a flood of confusion looking anywhere but Dean’s wistful stare. “I need to taste you… I need to know what it’s like to kiss you,” he explains, his voice breaking. “Even if you don’t want to go down this road, even if…” Dean shakes his head, barrelling forward, “I need this.”

For the first time, Cas meets his eyes. There’s conflict looking back at him. 

Dean adds, “Just as  _ you _ need to know you’re loved. That I love you… that I’ve probably always loved you and I’m just a really fucking stupid smart person. You’re—”

“Kiss me again.”

Shocked and fucking elated, Dean blinks and stares at him, flashing between both his eyes and his lips. “Yeah?”

Cas’ lips part, his chest rising and falling hard and fast now as if he’d been holding his breath the whole time. He reaches out and settles his mitten-covered hands on Dean’s waist, the cool leather jacket pressing against a strip of skin. 

This time, Dean takes his time moving in for the kill. He can’t think, can hardly breathe. His knees are weak, thighs shaky from a mix of being too cold and being too terrified. 

Tilting his head to the side, he grazes across Cas’ lips, his breath catching at the warmth coming through. Dean crowds his friend against the tree, gripping his face and heaving for air like it’s going out of style. 

In abortive excited hesitation, he drags his mouth over Castiel’s. Back and forth before finally shaping their lips together. Stealing a last breath, he parts the other man’s mouth and snakes his tongue inside, completely sagging as the slick heat surrounds him. 

Dean moans into the kiss, rubbing his tongue against Cas’, teasing him into a frenzy. 

Within seconds, Cas has taken control. Kissing him hard, like he’s just as starved as Dean is. Suddenly there’s a bare cold hand glued to the back of his head, holding him close. Necessary leverage for Cas to unleash that power they both know Dean craves. 

Cas’ tongue moves inside his mouth like it belongs there, stroking at him, tasting him. When things spiral out of control and they’re both moaning and shoving themselves closer, grinding, Dean loses himself.

In breaks between frantic kisses, he mumbles things. Things like, “you’re everything,” and “I love you,” and “I’m sorry.”

With every unchecked confession, he swears he feels Cas grow distant. The passion in him waning. Worry builds on the sidelines but Dean can’t see it. He’s not ready yet. 

After a small euphoric eternity, nirvana is ripped away. Heaving for air, Cas abruptly shoves him back; anger and doubt twisting his features. 

“We can’t!” he yells. “Dean, we… we can’t!”

Looking down at the ground, Dean bites his lip. He’s not surprised by any of this. 

“Why the hell not,” he mutters, already resigned to the oncoming pain. It won’t put him off course, it’ll be a bump in the road. Because you know what? They fucking belong together. 

Dean knows a shitton of things, got the straight A’s to prove it. And he knows… beyond a shadow of a doubt that Cas is it for him and that Dean will be the best goddamn boyfriend because Cas deserves nothing less. 

Cas flails his arms out, exasperated. “You need a list?!”

Obviously. “Fuck Cas… yeah I kinda do,” he shouts back, not meaning to but when Cas is fired up, he can’t help responding the same. “I just put my fucking heart on the line for the first time in my whole fucking life, so yeah if you’re gonna tear me up I’d like to know the why of it.”

Shaking his head, Cas swears in a puff of white. “You are my  _ entire _ life, Dean. Don’t you see that?! We have a condo, and a business, and you’re one of the only good friends I have in this life. I don’t have much, I’ve  _ never _ had much… and you’ve happened to become wedged into every part—

“You saying you don’t like being around me so much or something?”

Cas growls the word fuck at being interrupted. “Shut up and listen for once. Maybe we have feelings for each other… maybe we give this a go. Tell me, Dean… what the  _ fuck _ happens to my life—to  _ your _ life—if it all goes to shit. I rely on you for my livelihood! My accommodations! You’re basically my entire social life. If we fail, if this goes sour… I will have nothing. Don’t you get that?! Nothing!”

Even though he knew Cas wouldn’t fall into his arms and say I love you back… Dean never considered what might happen in the scenario Cas just painted. 

If things took a turn for the worst, both their worlds would be shattered on every front. The risks went beyond matters of the heart. 

Still, he had faith. As stupid and naive as that may be. 

When Dean’s lack of response goes on too long, Cas huffs and shakes his head. As if he’s had it with the drama. And Dean doesn’t miss the irony of himself being the one to cause it. “Let’s just go home,” mutters Cas. 

 

They leave the park in silence, Dean not daring to argue Cas’ point… knowing nothing he says will make a difference. He needs to prove to Cas somehow they can survive it all. And more than anything, Dean needs to give his roommate more than what he has. 

Even if it means seeing Cas less, working with him less, Dean has to find a way to give the man a life beyond their tangled web of friendship and work. 

Dean Winchester is nothing if not determined. He’s not quite sure how, but he’s going to make this work. In the depths of his soul, he knows they belong be together. 

It’s a fact more true than any useless statistic buried in his mind.  


	26. Chapter 26

It’s days before Christmas and the snow that fell a couple weeks ago has melted, leaving all of the City grungy and dirty; mounds of brown-tinted snow clinging to the gritty curbs and sidewalks, salt coating the streets and cars in a white haze.

A less than ideal setting for the start of something as epic as Dean’s forever love life, but he’ll make do.  

Under the guise of working late, Dean has managed to set up a niche for Cas, something all his and his alone. And if he ever wanted, he could leave the business in order to pursue his more specific artistic dreams. 

Graphic design isn’t exactly where someone with Cas’ ingenuity and creativity should wind up—not if it’s not really where he wants to be. Dean always assumed they were both just as content to work together, doing what they do, and that higher dreams had been long-since brushed aside as overly hopeful. 

Their business seems far more realistic. In a lot of ways, they got to do what they were good at it, what they didn’t hate, and had the freedom inherent of being their own bosses. 

But now he knows it’s not enough for Cas. 

He needs one or two more days to set things up, and as he can’t do it all himself, he enlists Sam and Jess to do some heavy lifting. Literally. Setting up an entirely new career avenue for someone doesn’t come cheap or easy. Turns out it’s not without elbow grease either. 

Dean doesn’t like keeping secrets from Cas, but seeing as the guy has been writing emotional porn about them for what seems like years, Dean figures he’s entitled to a bit of cloak and dagger shit. 

After hanging up with a distributer for a few supplies, Cas walks through the door. The cold air seems to come inside with him, and he rips his jacket off with a huff and tosses his hat into one of the baskets on the shelf above the coat rack. 

“How was your run?”

Cas grumbles an indistinct response and bypasses him to the kitchen where he fills a glass of water and chugs the entire thing in one go. Dean watches him the entire time, trying not to feel both excited for his secret plans but still pained by Cas’ rejection. 

He and Cas’ love life is now Schrodinger’s cat. And Dean’s plans will be the ultimate check on vitals. 

After wiping the loose water from his lips, Cas leans against the counter and looks Dean over a moment before speaking. “Are you okay?”

Dean waves it off, smiling as if everything is hunky dory. “Of course. I’ve already told you… I’m fine, we’re fine. The economy is shit and the world is probably gonna end in about thirty to forty years, but all in all… our immediate bubble is kosher.”

Cas smiles with a hint of amusement at Dean. “I appreciate the overview of… everything.”

“Happy to oblige.”

With shifty eyes, Cas turns to the back wall and presses his lips together. Dean waits for him to spit out whatever he’s chewing over. But after several seconds, Dean’s patience runs out. 

“What’s on your mind there Cas?”

Finally, Cas rounds on him, mouth twisted in consternation. “About Christmas… are we… I mean, we normally get together with your brother but this year I wasn’t sure if…” Cas shrugs, abandoning his sentence. The way he’s pulled into himself, slight but noticeable, suggests he’s bracing for bad news. 

Dean finds it hard to believe Cas would ever assume he’d cut the guy out of their Christmas tradition, rejection or not. 

In school, when he learned about Cas’ horrific family and scattered cousins he hardly sees as it is, Dean hadn’t given it a second thought when he invited the guy to spend Christmas with him and his brother. 

For years, Dean and Sam spent the holiday with only the two of them. No parents and no extended family might’ve put a damper on the holiday spirit but they made do. Even if they weren’t in the same state, they made it work. 

Once, on limited time, they met up back home in Lawrence and stayed at the priciest hotel. Ordered  _ everything _ imaginable off the menu. Decorated the room in tinsel and got drunk, singing out-of-tune Christmas carols late into the night. 

For years now, Cas has become an adopted Winchester at Christmas. Jess coming along not long after. They make exorbitant amounts of food, trade gifts, sing, get drunk and usually… when Sam and Jess have gone off to get their holiday freak on, Dean and Cas pile onto the couch and watch their favourite Christmas movies until they pass out in the wee hours of the morning. 

Die Hard is  _ always _ a staple. Gremlins of course, Lethal Weapon… sometimes Home Alone, and because Cas is stubborn and demands at least one barf-inducing shot of sweetness, they usually add something like Edward Scissorhands or Love Actually. 

Dean leans over the counter and smacks him on the hip to get his full attention. His roommate finally meets his eyes. 

“I would never cut you out of Christmas. No matter what, Cas. You’re family. Regardless of whatever happens or doesn’t happen with us… you belong to the Winchester clan. I mean, shit, it’s small enough as it is… we really can’t afford to lose any members at this point.”

Cas smiles softly, relieved. “Thank you.”

“No need. Although,” Dean makes a face and stands up, taking his turn at avoiding eye contact, “this year is actually gonna be different but seriously, I swear it’s not a reflection on this.”

And thankfully it isn’t. Dean’s plans for the evening happened to work out rather well after Sam, regretfully, informed him that Jess’ family wanted them to visit for Christmas this year and now that they were engaged, Sam didn’t think he could say no. 

Sammy offered to see if there was room for Cas and Dean to tag along but Dean told him it was kismet. 

“What do you mean?” asks Cas. 

“Jess’ family asked them to go up to Ann Arbor and Sam didn’t think he could say no… so sadly, it’s just you and me, bud.”

Instead of saying anything, Cas simply hums in thought and chews his lip. 

Dean understands how Cas might find it awkward, so he tries to set things right. “Listen, I know you’re thinking it’s gonna be weird. I promise it won’t. No funny business, no confessions… nothing.” Oh, how the lies are stacking up now. 

“I don’t know… maybe I can track Gabe down and see—”

“Hell no. Gabe is a selfish dick. The last time you guys met up, he ditched you to go have an orgy and we didn’t hear from him for like a month after that! I had to go pick you up in the middle of nowhere!”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Yes. I recall.”

“Then don’t be a baby. Man up, Cas. We’re best friends. You seriously telling me you can’t get over the fact that I barfed my feelings for you and you’re going to let it ruin Christmas for everyone? I mean God, Cas… how could you ruin Christmas?”

Now impatiently unamused, Cas folds his arms across his chest. “You’re annoying at times. You know that right?”

Dean grins. “It’s one of my best qualities.”

“Uh-huh.”

“C’mon. I’m serious. We can’t break tradition just ‘cause we crossed some imaginary line. And so help me god, if you make me watch Die Hard alone, I will—”

“You’ll what?” Cas challenges, his voice dry with a dark thread of authority. 

“Oh I’ll… I’ll do something alright. Maybe clean and fold all your laundry, organize every folder on your computer. I’ll even switch to whole milk. Don’t push me, man… I’ll do it.”

Rolling his eyes, Cas seems to cave. “You’re threatening me with cleaning and… thick milk?”

“Whatever works.”

Cas deadpans him with the most insufferable glare. “Fine. I’ll stay here for Christmas. But it better not be weird.”

“Absolute zero weirdness,” he promises, his fingers crossed behind his back.

For one brief moment, Cas narrows his eyes, as if he can sense Dean’s blatant lies, but it’s gone with a sigh of indifference. 

*      *      *

Dean thinks he’s being sneaky. He’s not. 

Though Cas isn’t entirely sure what’s going on or if it even relates to what happened in the park, he knows Dean is up to something. The man believes himself to be some fabulous liar, but they know each other much too well. 

In addition to the late nights, the hushed phone calls, and Meg eyeing him as if she knows something he doesn’t, Cas is fully aware that Dean is being devious. 

It hasn’t been easy, but Cas has reluctantly given him his privacy. But every day that passes taunts him, his curiosity battling his morals. 

When Christmas day rolls around, Cas feels relieved for the first time in a while. If he can count on anything, it’s that Christmas day will hopefully be as normal as Dean vehemently promised it would be. Of course, it won’t be as normal as it would’ve been if they were spending it with Sam and Jess as they’ve done the last few years, but still. 

An exchange of gifts, good food, and binge watching their favourite movies sounds like an excellent plan to get their old routine back on track. 

Dean has been cooking all morning, and Cas can’t wait. There are many things he enjoys about Dean, and his ability to make mouthwatering meals is high on the list. 

They always exchange gifts after dinner, never before. But for some reason, Dean wants to mix things up this year. He says cooking is going slow without Sam and doesn’t want to do anything but watch movies after, so he sets the timer for the turkey, and readies everything else for the oven but declares it gift-giving time. 

Cas heads back to his room to grab Dean’s gifts. A few books, a tool set for his bike so he can do more repairs in the building’s garage himself, and an annual subscription to a BDSM porn site because, all things considered, Cas figures Dean could benefit from a little self exploration. 

But as he’s turning around the corner of the hallway, he sees Dean by the door with his jacket on and Cas’ coat hanging over his arm. 

Suspicion creeps in.

“What’s going on?”


	27. Chapter 27

Dean smiles. “Uh, I suck at gift wrapping… and it’s not here so we have to take a little walk.” 

Thankfully, the weather worked out in his favour, a couple inches of snow on the ground and more falling. Perfect for the grand gesture sort of thing. 

“You’re amazing at gift wrapping,” Cas clarifies, eyeing Dean with wariness. 

It’s true. Dean is the best at fucking wrapping. There are few things he’s bad at, anything Christmas isn’t one of them. Dean once wrapped a goddamn bicycle for his kid brother. And he didn’t just tent the decorated paper around it… oh no, no, no. That shit’s for amateurs. Dean wrapped every bar and gear and pedal. It looked exactly like the bike it was…. but he didn’t care. 

“Okay. You got me. I am awesome at wrapping. However, the gift still isn’t here so put your freakin’ coat on, would ya?”

“Dean,” drones his roommate, closing his eyes impatiently. 

Grunting his frustration, Dean stomps over—unburdens Cas’ arms of the wrapped gifts and places them on the counter—then forces Cas into his winter coat. The entire time Cas acts like a petulant child. 

“Don’t be such a grinch,” he tells Cas. 

“You’re being weird. You promised.”

Dean smiles, knowing there’s a glint in his eye he can’t help. “Shut up and come with me.”

For a moment, Cas stalls and simply stares back at him. Determined not to budge. Well too bad, thinks Dean. He reaches out and snags a fistful of Cas’ jacket and starts tugging him along. 

“What are you gonna do, drag me?”

“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

At some point during the pulling and tugging on Cas to get out of the building, he finally caves and moves forward on his own. It’s a welcome change cause Dean really didn’t want to have drag his ass for the half hour of walking it would take to get where they’re going. 

After about a mile, Cas stops. “Are we going to work?”

“Close but no cigar.”

Cas goes quiet after that. No matter what random spew of trivia or useless statistic or ridiculous story Dean babbles on about to kill the silence does nothing to spark Cas’ interest. He’s worried and it's obvious. 

Hopefully not for long. 

They get closer to their office and Cas starts giving Dean awkward looks out of the corner of his eye which Dean happily ignores. He knows this has the potential to go downhill but he doesn’t care. 

Okay, he cares. Really cares. But this is about Cas more than anything else. If Dean is shot down again… he… shit. He doesn’t know how he’ll handle it. But he can picture their future together, he can see it so clearly, it’s hard to imagine them not ending up together. 

Maybe it won’t be tonight, or tomorrow, or even this year. But somehow… he’ll grow old with Cas. 

On the same block as work, Dean veers to the left instead of the right… to another low-rise series of office buildings. He drags Cas along with him, picking up the pace with his excitement. 

Pulling out his keys, Dean unlocks the front door. The lobby is nothing special and not big by any means but it serves its purpose. There are a couple plants, a bench and big plaque beside the elevator with a list of the offices and businesses in the building. 

They enter the elevator and Dean hits number four. 

“Dean…” Cas edges his name out, turning to stare at him in the small space. 

“Relax,” he says. The doors open and in the hallway, Dean finally stops and looks at his roommate. “Mystery is almost over, I swear. But, uh, one more thing…”

“What?” Cas grumbles. 

“Close your eyes.”

Instead of doing as asked, Cas folds his arms across his chest, winter coat all bunched up and making him look like an angry puff ball. “I’d rather not.”

“The man can bark out orders but can’t take ’em, huh?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Tough shit, Cas. C’mon… it’s Christmas. Just close your goddamn eyes, will ya?”

“Oh, because you asked  _ so  _ nicely,” he replies sarcastically. With a big huff and an eye roll, Cas finally shuts his peepers.

Dean grins, taking a fleeting moment to appreciate the beauty of Cas features. The snow stuck to his unruly hair and long, dark eyelashes. The extra chappedness of his winter lips. And the slight reddish tinge to the apples of his cheeks from outside chill. 

There’s a hard, heavy feeling sitting in his stomach and a tightness across his chest and back. Dean knows this is it… the moment he finds out if the cat is really dead or alive. Taking Cas by the hand, their cold fingers loosely hanging on, Dean guides Cas down the hall to Office number 403. 

Fiddling with his keys one-handed, Dean manages to single out the right one and unlock the door. Just before he opens it, he double checks that Cas’ eyes are indeed shut. 

They are. 

Taking a deep breath, he opens the door. He pulls Cas inside, closes it and stands there beside his friend for an immeasurable moment. Fear and panic and hope and a million different emotions wrestle inside him. 

Dean clears his throat. He lets go of Cas’ hand and says, “K… open ’em up.”

Watching Cas’ profile, Dean takes in every expression dancing across his face. Most of them there and gone in a flash. And for the most part, he remains still. Unnervingly quiet. 

Ripping his gaze away from his best friend, Dean looks around to remind himself of how Cas might be seeing it all for the first time. 

The room is open, massive. There’s a carpet in front of them that leads to a table in the very centre of the space. On it are three different sculptures Cas made in school. He always says he doesn’t like them but Dean knows he’s just being insecure. 

They fit the space perfectly. One is a vertical wave, splashing in a dome at the top. The clay worked and balanced to perfection making the piece sturdy instead of easily toppled. Another is a depiction two people holding hands. And the last is an abstract piece, painted in a sea of greys and blacks. It could be a web or a three dimensional scribble, but either way it’s always reminded Dean of his own mind. 

At the very back of the room is a wall of floor to ceiling bookcases. They aren’t full just yet, but Dean spent hours at Indigo and bought every book he thought Cas might like in his field. Some to do with writing, some with art, and the occasional thriller because he knows his best friend well. 

In front of the bookcases is a chunky wood desk with an array of little boxes and loads of drawers and organizational pieces to try and guide Cas’ chaotic work style. All along the walls are pieces of work that he’s done, all taken from their condo storage. Stuff Cas decided didn’t fit in the apartment or at the office. 

There are drafting desks, copying tools, areas to paint and all other sorts of stuff. Dean would’ve liked to section areas off more but Meg made him keep it open. She said Cas has a creative mind and thus needs an open and creative space. 

It made sense so he conceded to her logic. 

In addition to the art pieces he did in school, some digital, some done by hand, Dean also included all of Cas’ tattoo sketches over the years. Both his, Dean’s, and other people who have come to him with an idea. 

The room makes for an eclectic explosion of Cas’ abilities and Dean loves standing it. He wonders how Cas feels. It’s been about three minutes and nothing has been said. 

After too long of an uncomfortable silence, Dean smacks his lips and starts walking further into the room. “So, here’s the thing… when we started the business in school… it happened by accident. And it grew and we got money and we just kinda… rolled with it. I never once considered you might be giving up something to go down this road with me. And when I… when we talked at the park… after the Christmas party, I realized you were right. 

“Our lives are too tangled and at the end of the day, you never even chose to do this business with me. It just happened. I did this not just because I wanted to show you that there can be a  _ you _ separate from  _ us _ , I wanted to do it because I want you to be happy with your career. I want you to be able to write stories without having to be sneaky about it at work—”

“What?” 

Oops. Dropped the ball on that one. “Yeah… riiiiight. Uh, so I know about the writing.”

“How?!”

“Not important—”

“—Dean, you—” Angrily, Cas tries to go off on a tirade but Dean races across the room and takes Cas by the shoulders, amazingly shutting him up. 

“Just listen, please. I know not everything is figured out yet but you have legitimate talent—and I’m not just saying that because I fucking  _ looooved _ reading about all the ways you’ve wanted to fool around with me over the years. 

“I want you to follow whatever goals you had when you went to school. You’re creative and I know you chose graphic design because you thought it was more practical over a standard art degree and you’re right… it is. An art degree is practically worthless—no offence. But you can move into doing more of what you want to do while still doing as much or as little work at our office as you want. I want you to come here and use this space however you want to do whatever interests you. 

“I mean, shit, Cas. It’s fucking New York and there are always people looking for some new hot artist and that could be you. And even if you don’t want to go down that road, Meg said that if you ever wanted to try your hand at being a tattoo artist, she’d love to take you on as an apprentice. She could use some more talent and she said your work is exceptional. People would pay good money to get you to do their pieces. 

“All I’m saying is that you have options and I want you to pursue those options because I want you to be happy. But also selfishly… because I want you to know your life doesn’t have to be tied to me. Though… I would love it if it were.”

For now, Dean decides to stop talking and waits for Cas to say something. Anything. He chews his chapped lips for a few seconds then reluctantly looks around the room, his gaze lingering on some things more than others. 

“Dean… it’s not that easy. I can’t simply…  _ change  _ careers. It doesn't work that way.”

“I know. Which is why I said you can stay working at the office part time. We’ll figure things out, detail-wise, but you have the freedom to do something different. If you want. And, uh… there’s a loft above here and not that I ever want you to move out… but if you wanted… to. You could.”

Cas narrows his eyes. “How did you pay for this?”

“I only paid first and last month’s rent so far. The supplies were mostly yours. And the furniture Sam was able to cherry pick from his school and craigslist. We scavenged so don’t worry about cost. As for the rent in the future… I’m thinking I’d assume the entire mortgage of our current place and you can buy this place if you want. It has an option to buy but I didn’t want to commit to anything. Anyway… it’s all details right now. And we don’t need to get into them. Just so you know… I tried to do everything in a way so you wouldn’t feel indebted to me or any of that garbage. I just want to give you options, Cas, that’s it.”

Not bothering to say anything, Cas steps further into the space and moves close to the table of sculptures from his past. He fingers the joined hands and looks lost in thought. Dean doesn’t move for fear of interrupting whatever train of thought he’s going down right now.  

When Cas inches towards the piece at the end, the angry dimensional scribble, he fingers along the base. Then he looks over at Dean, something deep in his expression. In that moment he knows Cas designed the piece with Dean as his inspiration. 

They stare at each other for a long while. One of them blinks and the short spell is broken. 

In a slow circuit, Cas moves through the space and inspects everything. He even persuses the titles of all the books. A couple he even pulls off the shelf and flips through. It’s almost as if he forgets Dean is there. 

After nearly twenty minutes, Cas goes over to the desk and looks at every tray and box, a slow, small building smile turning up the corners of his mouth. 

“Meg said you’d hate the little boxes… but I couldn’t help myself.”

Cas smirks. His voice low as he replies, “Of course you couldn’t.”

The tension inside Dean has gone past uncomfortable to nearly unbearable. He knows he’s fidgeting, cracking his knuckles and shifting his weight and tapping his foot. 

Pulling out the hideous comfy chair Meg insisted on, Cas takes a seat and looks up, his sharp gaze locking onto Dean’s.

Dean goes instantly still under the weight of his attention. 

“You didn’t do this only for the sake of my career and my interests.” 

Moving closer to the desk, Dean answers, “No. I said that, didn’t I?”

“Not in detail.”

Right. Dean clears his throat and paces in front of the visitor chairs, his fingers tapping along the top ridge of fabric. “Guess I just didn’t want to take away from the main reason why I did this.”

Cas eases back in the chair, everything about him pouring control. “What do you really want, Dean?”

“Other than the obvious,” he throws out. Dean shakes his head and tries to do this right. “Cas, I meant what I said a couple weeks ago.”

“That you love me?”

Dean feels a twitch at the corner of his mouth. A smile or a tick he’s not sure. It’s still not easy for him to say the words, but they exist in him. Suffocating him. “Yes.”

“Stop pacing, Dean. Come here.”

He rounds the desk with his head down, hating how his earlier confidence has taken a nosedive and all that stupid useless fear is making him a goddamn moron. 

Standing in front of Cas’ knees, he takes a breath and raises his head. “I need you. And I don’t mean the freaky stuff. Err.. not  _ just _ the freaky stuff.”

Cas stares at him for a moment. “Go on…”

“Okay, let me start at the beginning here. I don’t mean the beginning of school or anything, I just mean… ya know… like my revelation or whatever.” Cas nods, so he nods back and keeps talking. “When I ran into Benny and he told me about what happened to his wife… I mean, it was awful and I felt terrible for the guy but he was going on and on about what he missed about her and fuck, the things he was saying? Cas… he described the best parts of his relationship as exactly what you are to me. 

“You’re the person I tell everything to. The only person I really care to spend the majority of my time with. You make the bad days better and you manage to make me feel, I dunno, like I’m not this spastic neurotic headcase. You calm something in me that I don’t even understand. And fuck, Cas, you’re everything. 

“I never realized how much I look forward to bringing you your morning coffee. Or how often I let my eyes wander to the way your boxers always slide carelessly down your hips. I’ve been attracted to you for years, I just never really noticed it ‘cause I’m a goddamn idiot when it comes to dealing with people. Not that you’re any better, mind you…”

Cas makes a face at him, eyebrows up and questioning. “I’m not good with people?”

“No, you’re not. But you’re good with me, if that helps. You’ve figured me out… it’s just… I took a little longer to figure myself out. I know it’s fucking terrifying, trust me… I am way more afraid of this than you are but I’ve done the math.”

Breaking from his near emotionless facade, Cas chuckles. “You did the math on what?”

Dean blushes. “Based on our traits, our relative ability to get along and sexual compatibility I estimate we have a 97% chance of staying together our whole lives. I even tried out various dating website algorithms and we surprisingly did alright. It helps we’re both nerds.”

“I’m an eccentric…  _ you _ are the nerd.”

“Fine whatever. Wait, no. I take that back. You ship Kirk and Spock, man… and you write fanfiction. Sort of. Total nerd. Anyway, what I’m saying is... is that we fucking belong together. Hell, we’ve pretty much been in a serious relationship now for nearly a decade, we just hadn’t thought to add sex to the equation. But we make every life decision together, we do groceries together, we do holidays together. The only thing we weren’t doing was fucking!”

“Out of curiosity, where did we lose that three percent?”

He grins. “Uhh… cause you’re a big freaking slob but I only deducted three points because I figure I’ve already accepted your singular bad quality so I don’t think it really hurts our chances.”

Cas shakes his head. “What about  _ your _ bad qualities?”

“I figure it was my bad qualities and neuroses that led to us fucking so I’ve counted those in the plus column.”

“I think that’s cheating.”

“Fine, I’ll deduct three more points but dammit we’re still doing pretty good here. And,” Dean sighs and finally looks away, the one thing he’s most scared of, the one thing he was afraid to say because if Cas shut him down after this Dean would have to live with the pain of losing something he knew would be the best thing of his life.

“And what, Dean? Look at me.”

Tearing his eyes from the floor, Dean reluctantly fixes his green eyes to Cas’ blue ones. “I know you’re worried about risking what we have, but Cas… what if,” he swallows his fears and lays himself on the line, “What if something happened? What if you died or moved on or what if I did? 

“What if we never got to know how amazing we are together? What if  _ us  _ ends up being the most amazing thing we ever do? What if we’re risking an entire life together because we’re worried about it not working? I know you’re freaking out, and I get it… there is a lot on the line. But maybe… with this,” he gestures around them, “maybe it doesn't have to be all that scary?”

“I don’t want to have any regrets. And I think… I  _ know _ that you’re it for me. You are the only person I can see spending my entire life with. Being best friends with you isn’t enough anymore. I want to be able to kiss you and lay in bed with you and make you come ‘cause you’re so fucking hot when you come and I just want to tangle our lives together even more because the thought of not being with you… the thought of losing what I think would be the greatest thing we’ll ever do… that’s what terrifies me.”

Dean stands there, with nothing else he can think of to stay, shaking. It’s now or never. The cat is either dead or alive and he honestly doesn’t know if he can handle rejection after all that. 

It startles him when Cas reaches out and takes him by the wrist. Dean looks up, not realizing he’d pulled his eyes away. 

“On your knees, Dean.”

Confused, but unable to do anything but follow Cas’ orders, Dean goes to his knees. He finds himself staring at parted legs. This isn’t the way he thought today would go. 

Cas leans over and runs his fingers over Dean’s jaw towards his chin where he then tilts Dean’s head back, forcing him to meet Cas’ hard penetrating stare. 

“You were shaking,” Cas tells him. “And going a little pale.”

Dean feels his mouth curve a bit. “Yeah. This all came out much more mangled and frantic and horrible than I planned for.”

Cas smiles softly and searches his eyes. “Honestly… it was… perfect. Dean, I can’t imagine not having you in my life either. To be honest.” Dean gazes up at him but doesn’t say a word, he just waits for Cas to go on, to make or break his heart in a few simple words. “We have no way of knowing if this will work. Statistical calculations or not.”

At that, Dean swallows and tries to pull away, his body getting a bad instinct about where this is going. Cas makes a gruff noise and grasps Dean’s jaw with remarkable strength. 

“Did I say I was done speaking?”

Biting his lip, Dean shakes his head. 

“As I was saying,” Cas continues, “there’s no way of knowing what the future holds. But you’re right…” Dean perks up, hope no doubt flashing across his face. “There’s fear over risking our friendship and everything else we have going on in our lives… but there’s also another fear I never considered. And,” Cas looks abruptly flooded by emotion, his eyes filling with unshed tears, “and the idea of losing you and living with the regret of a life not lived sounds like the worst thing I could think of.” 

At this point, hope is a beast inside Dean’s chest. He’s breathing heavy with anticipation. But he’s still cagey and unsure, needing more. 

“Does that mean what I think it means?”


	28. Chapter 28

Cas smiles softly at him and rolls his chair closer, both knees spreading to either side of Dean’s shoulders. Cas frames Dean’s face with both hands and leans over, drawing them close. 

Close enough for Dean to smell the mocha Cas had earlier. The sweet note of chocolate and coffee making his mouth water. 

“Yes... It does,” Cas replies, blue eyes spearing into his soul. 

“Are you sure?” he asks hopefully, voice rough and broken.

“Yes.” Cas yanks him closer, forcing him to rise up on his knees. 

Their mouths crash together in a violent, desperate kiss. Nothing soft or tender the way Dean first imagined, the way it started in the park. This is a goddamn collision. They devour each other, mouths angled and open wide, tongues storming the other’s mouth and demanding a taste. 

Cas bites his lip and groans into the kiss. Both hands on Dean’s head are used forcibly to drag Dean off his knees and into the chair. 

He straddles Cas’ thighs and curls around him, arms wrapping around his shoulders. Hands burying into the mess of his hair and tasting the flavours on his tongue as if he’s been starved his whole life. Dean grinds on his lap, a low whine rising up his throat. 

In frantic madness and dire urgency, they tear through each other’s clothes. The chair creaks and rocks dangerously with their brash, unstable movements. When Dean stumbles off to kick off his pants, he doesn’t even get a chance to climb back on. 

With an air of sharp authority and a husky deep voice, Cas manhandles him and barks out a command, “Bend over the desk.”

Except Dean doesn’t even get a chance to comply because Cas takes control and spins him around, shoving him down by the back of his neck. 

His naked chest smacks the wood and a gush of air blows past his lips. Oh christ, it’s almost exactly like Cas’ little word-fucking from the bar. Fucking yesss. 

Cas kisses aggressively down his body, licking over the ridges of his spine and biting his fleshier areas. His hips and the curve of his ass so blatantly on display. 

Grabbing both cheeks, Cas spreads him open and Dean’s breath catches in his throat. When Cas buries his face against Dean’s ass, he cries out and slaps the desk before grabbing the edge of it out of concern he might just slide into a puddle on the floor. 

Cas licks at his hole and groans as he’s doing it. His fingers are hard where they’re gripping Dean’s flesh, his tongue is wet and probing and Dean can feel his cock leaking against his thigh.

“Holy fuck… Cas,” he mumbles, his knees starting to shake. 

“I told you I wanted to make a mess of you once… and I plan to,” Cas promises, hot breath ghosting against Dean’s fluttering entrance. 

He bangs his head on the desk and shamelessly spreads his legs more. Cas smacks his ass once before opening him up again and fervently tongue-fucking him. It takes less then ten minutes for Dean to become a total mess. 

Precome has dribbled down his thigh, tears have leaked from the corner of his eyes and smeared on the wood desk. Cas’ saliva is all down his crease and now coating his balls. When he starts to whimper and squirm, demanding more… demanding  _ something _ to ease the screaming inside his head, Cas pulls away and gives his ass several unexpected spanks before spearing him with a single finger. 

“I want to claim you,” Cas growls, the hunger and lust in his voice like nothing Dean’s ever heard. 

“God yes,” he breathes. 

In a hard pumping motion, Cas drives his finger in over and over again. His fist slamming into Dean’s rear with the kind of strength that has Dean thumping repeatedly against the desk, the long edge of it bruising his thighs. 

And he’s loving every lick of pain, crying out and clawing at the desk with blunt nails. 

“You’d never trust any one else to take you apart like this, would you?”

Dean awkwardly shakes his head and licks the drools from his lips. “No… no way.”

“You would’ve gone your whole life without being properly unraveled,” Cas comments regretfully, more to himself than to Dean. “I don’t think I could’ve kept my distance for long. I love watching you break like this, knowing it’s just for me. I love that you come to me for everything. And I looove how you come for me.”

Huffing for air, Dean angles back in a desperate plea for Cas’ continued touch. “Fuck… Cas, more.”

Cas kisses the small of his back and rubs over his skin. Dean hears him suck on his fingers before the burn and stretch of  _ definitely _ more than one digit tugs at his rim, trying to work into him. Dean flinches when he feels the girth of Cas’ fingers fucking him open wider and he can’t wait for the final event. 

In slow languid thrusts, Cas drives his fingers inside. With annoying precision, he doesn’t alter his pace and instead of boring Dean with the predictability, it drives him mad. He starts to shake his ass and push back. Cas laughs and reaches over him to grab him by the neck and pin him to the desk so he can’t move. 

Trapped in place, Dean succumbs to the slow rhythm of Cas’ fingers moving inside him. When he starts to tremble with far too many hormones, Cas breaks his pace and hammers his fingers into Dean at a brutal pace, making him cry out in broken grunts as his entire body rocks hard against the desk. 

His entire body buzzes with energy, tingling right down to his toes. 

Cas pulls out slowly and Dean nearly slides off the desk to the floor. But Cas holds him steady and fumbles for something  behind him. When Dean hears the flick of a cap, he can’t help but look over his shoulder in curiosity. 

And yes, Cas is holding a bottle of lube. 

“Where the-the hell did you get that?” he asks, hardly able to breathe.

“It was in my coat.”

“Sneaky bastard,” Dean mumbles.

In retaliation, Cas lands a sharp hand to his ass and makes him jump. “Look around you and tell me  _ I’m  _  the sneaky bastard again.”

Dean stifles a chuff of laughter and throws a smirk over his shoulder. “You gonna claim me or what.”

A low growl cuts through the room and Dean’s cock twitches, another glob of precome weeps from the tip and smears against the desk. 

“Fuck yes. I figure we’ve already made love… haven’t we Dean?” He doesn’t do anything other than smile knowingly in response. “So now… I’m going to fuck you the way I’ve always wanted to. And I don’t want to hold back. But nevertheless… normal rules will always apply, okay?”

“Right.”

“And those rules are?” prompts Cas.

Dean makes a low sound of protest, impatience making him angry. “Red, yellow, green.”

“Good boy,” Cas says, leaning close so Dean catches his devious wink. 

“Fuck,” groans Dean, loving what Cas does to him. 

Without really much forewarning, Cas spreads Dean open, lines himself up and fucks into Dean nice and slow, both of them sighing in rapture and gratification.  

Cas rocks into Dean gentle and easy at first, getting him used to the stretch but it isn’t long before Cas starts to snap his hips, impaling Dean on his cock without any real finesse. Just hard and rough, making Dean’s mind splinter out of control. 

Their bodies rock against the desk and Dean starts to shake and stutter an endless string of pleas and profanities all mangled together. 

When Dean tries to reach under to stroke his erection, Cas grabs his wrists and pins his arms against his back. It makes Dean’s entire body sing with pleasure and the sharpest, sweetest twist of discomfort. He doesn't know why he likes it, but he does. 

Cas slows, marginally… but doesn’t temper the way he bottoms out. Slamming into Dean so hard half the stupid little boxes and trays Dean bought have skidded off the desk and crashed to the floor. 

Out of nowhere, Cas pulls out and yanks Dean up. He’s dizzy and can barely stand. Cas turns him around and picks him up only to drop his ass on the desk and catch him under the knees, sending him crashing backwards with his feet in the air. 

“Holy fuck,” he stutters. 

Cas grabs his thighs and jerks him closer, his ass barely hanging off the edge of the desk. Reaching down with one hand, Cas holds himself in place as he slowly pushes his cock back into Dean’s overheated body. 

Dean sags in relief, a moan slipping past his lips. Eyes closed, he loses himself to the motion of Cas’ cock rutting into him, the way his hands grip Dean’s thighs and drag him into each thrust, their bodies slapping obscenely together. 

His body and the pleasure inside him move in waves under his skin, coiling in his gut. A fever has broken out, making sweat trickle from his hairline. 

Dean feels his orgasm ratcheting higher, building and building. A pressure pooling at the base of his spine. It’s a sharp sensation, and he can’t think and he’s so close. 

“Cas,” he warns breathlessly, unable to say anything more. 

“Yes, that’s it, Dean… get a little closer,” Cas guides him. 

Dean squeezes his eyes and claws at the desk, not daring to touch himself. If he does, he’d go off like a rocket and he kind of wants to, but at the same time, he loves knowing it’s Cas who’s pulling the orgasm from him. Or fucking it out of him, really. 

Just as the surge rises and his mouth drops open in ecstasy, Cas’ fingers grip around the base of his cock and balls and he squeezes. Dean screams in anger, frustration roaring in his veins. And then he shakes and shakes, whimpering. 

“Cas, no… Cas please, fucking christ. Oh god, I need to… seriously, I need…” his sentence disappears into nothing when Cas pulls out to the tip and starts fucking Dean with just the head of his cock. 

“Colour?”

Dean is confused for a half second, then remembers he mumbled no and realizes why Cas is asking. “Fuck, sorry… definitely green.”

“Yes?”

“Fuck yes. Don’t stop… please.”

“Okay,” Cas whispers back and strokes Dean’s chest, forcing his breaths to deepen. 

Resuming the roll of his hips, Cas nudges his slick erection in and out of Dean’s oversensitive hole. He groans, loving the stretch of Cas filling him. The slow gentle fucking makes his dick twitch, impossibly hard.

Cas doesn’t let him get used to it. 

A gush of air is forced from his lungs when Cas plunges into him and starts fucking him hard and fast again. Dean feels his release barrel forward for the second time and he really starts to beg then, tears spilling from his eyes. 

“It’s okay Dean,” Cas grunts, his voice roughened by lust and exertion. “Let it take you over. I got you… come all over yourself for me.”

Dean whimpers and feels his lip trembling, emotions storming through him. “Uh fuck,” he mumbles, eyes opening and closing, “fuck, fuck, fuck…” he chants. The ache in him is unbearable and he’s worried he’s lost the rising peak of his orgasm. “I can’t…” he sobs.

He feels split open and a little frayed at the edges. He wants to come, he needs to come but his body is gun-shy after being denied the first time. 

Cas slows right down, letting Dean feel his cock sliding in and out. Every catch of his cockhead on Dean’s rim makes him shudder with pleasure. Every thrust… filling him and stretching him. The achingly tight fit of their bodies come together is like nothing else, and feeling every nuance of it in slow motion is what finally sets Dean off. 

He cries out and feels his entire body convulse, euphoria coursing through his veins at hyper speed. Hot come spurts out of his cock and splashes the underside of his chin and then all down his chest. His ass spasms around Cas’ dick and all that does is drive him insane. Dean pulls at his own hair and rocks himself mindlessly onto the unrelenting presence of Cas’ erection, feeling it slide gloriously in and out of his ass as he comes all over himself in long quick jets. 

Just as he’s coming down from the high, the repeated tensing of his body dulling to aftershocks, he opens his eyes to see Cas poised on the brink, shaking. His skin so red with tension and baited release, he looks ferocious. 

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Dean breathes, clenching his ass wantonly around Cas’ cock. 

It finally breaks him. His beautiful face contorting into pleasure and he starts to come. His hips shaking as he empties himself inside Dean. 

When they finally calm down and collapse into the chair in an awkward cuddle, Dean peers down at him with a dopey smile. “I like this upgrade.”

Cas laughs. “Upgrade?”

“Yeah, the Dean and Cas upgrade. Version 2.0, baby.”

Cas shakes his head with resigned amusement. “Wouldn’t this be somewhere closer to Version 5?”

“No way. Everything else that came before this was like a crappy firmware update on version one… this is the brand new operating system, sweetheart. Shiny and efficient with all sorts of new perks.”

“Version 2.0 it is.”

“Fuck yeah,” Dean smirks. 

They share a quiet laugh and Dean snuggles more into the warmth of Cas’ body. This is where he always belonged, he just didn’t know it. His whole life he always struggled to find the perfect system, write the perfect code, design the perfect app. 

He wished he would’ve had the balls to pursue this kind of perfection earlier. But hey, it’s better late than never. 

Quiet fills the room for a handful of minutes. With nothing but the sound of their slightly laboured breathing on the air. 

Dean feels a chill prickle at his skin and he knows it’s time to get up and go home. But he’s so fucking content the idea of moving seems stupid. 

“You’re cold,” Cas whispers, voice raspy. 

“Hmm,” Dean mumbles in agreement, “yeah, but naked cuddling is so nice. I don’t think I’ve ever naked cuddled before.”

Dean can’t see but he knows Cas is smiling. “We can naked cuddle at home… our nice warm apartment. Where we can eat delicious food and watch movies all night.”

Oooh yeah. Dean likes that. “Geez, no wonder I love you.”

Interrupting their last minute of comfort, Cas pushes Dean up, hands reaching to frame his face. They stare at each other softly. Cas offers him a tender smile. “I love you too… in case you didn’t know.”

Dean grins. “I figured. I mean… I am a genius and everything.”

They smile at each other, the way kids do when they’re sharing a secret. Cas runs his fingers through Dean’s hair. “Let’s go home.”

He moves to get up and then stops, looking down at Cas with a stunted thought. “We’re gonna fuck again tonight right?”

Cas doubles over with a shot of laughter. “My god, Dean. How did you survive on porn before this?”

He shrugs. “Honestly. I have no idea.”

Gathering their clothes, they pull themselves together. They take one last look at Castiel’s new swanky art spot and head out back into winter, the streets quieter than ever with Christmas Day otherwise occupying most of the city’s residents. 

Dean grabs Cas’ hand, gloves and all, and holds it the whole way back to the apartment; a stupid ass triumphant grin plastered to his face.


	29. Chapter 29

“What?” Dean looks affronted. “C’mon, I would _totally_ suck gravy off your dick,” Dean tells Cas while their shoveling their faces with turkey dinner in front of the TV.

“No you wouldn’t,” argues Cas. “Dean, you got ketchup in your leg hair once and were so horribly disgusted you ran to a convenience store and bought Lysol wipes to disinfect yourself.”

As kinky as Dean happens to be, or so they’ve learned in recent weeks, food and sex just really don’t seem like his thing.

Dean shakes his head. “Uhh, dude, that ketchup was leftover from someone else and had been all globbed up on the bench. Someone. Else’s. Ketchup. Man, that’s gross.”

Fair enough, Cas relents. He thinks back on the meant-to-be-joke suggestion of Dean sucking gravy off his cock. “It would be messy,” he informs with a raise of his brow, slightly goading his best friend turned lover.

Dean shrugs. “While I _do_ hate messy… when you get me messy… it’s not so bad.”

“Because you love me?”

Turning to face him, Dean plasters a wide stupid grin to his face. “Maaaaybe.”

Fuck. Cas is stunned by Dean like this. The man beside him is full of positive energy and quick secretive grins. As if this thing between them now is a great big clandestine affair. Even though it’s not. They talked on the way home about telling everyone as soon as the office opened back up after New Year’s.

Dean thinks they should start making out in the middle of an office meeting. Cas is not quite on board with this suggestion. Apparently being in love makes Dean reckless and… definitely into public displays of affection.

It’s not what Cas expected, but he loves it.

God, he can’t believe he almost passed this up. For fear of losing… well.. everything. But Dean made a point he never considered, one that scared him so deeply he’s not sure Dean is aware of just how much it rocked him to his core.

They could’ve bypassed this. Could’ve caved to the fear of failure… but then what if, as Dean suggested, one of them was gravely injured or killed in some stupid accident. Hell, Dean drives a motorcycle! In New York!

The thought of losing Dean had stricken him. Made him feel nauseous. And then how would he have felt? If Dean was lost to him and he had to spend the rest of his whole life wondering what he’d missed out on.

It sounds like torture.

Perhaps they won’t last in the long run. But, he considers, what if they do? What if Dean is the one beside him at the end of it all?

Honestly, he can’t imagine anything better.

They finish off their meal as Gremlins plays on the TV. Dean, like always, insists on clearing and cleaning all dishes. Cas helps him. Both of them enjoying the crampedness of the kitchen for the first time. Trading kisses in passing, slapping and grabbing at each other’s ass.

It starts playful, but Cas knows it’s just steering them towards what’ll happen later.

After the dishes are clean and put away and the dishwasher is running a load with everything else, they meander back to the couch and curl up at one end—Cas in the corner with Dean tucked in between his legs.

Gremlins has come to an end and Dean tips his head back and Cas and says, “Die Hard?”

“Definitely,” replies Cas.

Dean snags the remote from the coffee table and clicks around to find what he wants.

As the opening credits begin, Cas glances around the apartment, absorbing the mood into his breath and his veins. It’s dark outside now, snow still falling beyond the window. More like sleet now than the big fat flakes from earlier.

It’ll make for a layer of ice on top of the freshly packed snow. A good crunch for walking around tomorrow.

Dean shifts a little, settling himself into the warm groove Cas has created for him with his body. It’s impossible not to smile and wonder about the new status of his life.

Of _their_ life.

Brushing his nose over the top of Dean’s head, Cas threads his fingers up the side of Dean’s neck and starts to play with the short hair by his ear. Where the skin is soft and warm and Dean is sensitive. As if his touch subconsciously prompted Dean to reciprocate, Castiel feels Dean’s hand move over to his outer knee and begin stroking him through the fabric.

Cas can’t recall ever being this content or comfortable. Which is saying a lot considering he’s a fairly calm man who considers meditation a daily requirement. But emotional or spiritual clarity and comfort has nothing on the warm, soft feel of Dean’s heavy body nestled into him.

As the movie plays on, Castiel can hardly pay attention to it. They’ve been touching each other so casually, slowly, it’s easy to miss the build-up. But it happens, like a train gathering speed.

The movie is barely halfway done but already Cas’ hands have strayed from Dean’s soft hair to the nape of his neck and down his shoulders, ducking under his shirt to splay his fingers across the man’s chest.

And Dean? Dean has been steadily rubbing back against him. Bracing himself on Cas’ knees and grinding, slyly, between Cas’ widespread legs.

The heat in the room seems to expand and swell, humidity rising right along with it. Cas can feel the dampness of sweat through Dean’s clothes and all he wants to do is strip him down and run his tongue over Dean’s abs and chest, tasting the base flavour of him.

It kills him to feel Dean’s simmering need, the impatience boiling under his skin. And yet, his best friend-turned-lover doesn’t make a move.

“Dean?” he asks, planting his palm flat across Dean’s chest under his shirt.

Breathlessly, Dean replies, “Mm. Yeah?”

Cas drags his hand up, wraps his fingers around Dean’s jaw, tucks his index into the man’s parted mouth and says, “I want to break you apart.”

In an immediate wordless response, Dean grinds back onto him and sucks his finger with a wanton groan.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Cas mumbles with a laugh.

Shifting and straining his neck to look back, Dean smiles. “Definitely yes.”

“Even while Die Hard plays?”

“Best background track ever!”

They both chuckle, sharing the joy of the moment. And of being friends and doing what they do on Christmas but also feeling this other thing between them. Something new and yet easy and familiar despite the excitement of it.

Cas gently pushes Dean off his chest until they’re both sitting. Facing each other. Breathing in the change.

“So, uh… kinky times again?”

With a soft smile, Cas reaches out and hooks both hands around Dean’s knees. He yanks his best friend into his lap and says, “Maybe next time. I think tonight I want to take you apart just like the first time.”

“But with kissing though, right?” insists Dean.

Cas grins. “Yes. With kissing.”

“Thank fuck! After reading all about those damn kisses, I’ve been craving your lips and tongue like a starved man, Cas.”

Right. He almost forgot about Dean having read every dirty detail Cas’ mind has ever cooked up. “Hmm. That reminds me… one of these days I’ll need to spank you for invading my privacy.”

Dean bites his lip. “Isn’t spanking supposed to be some form of punishment? Cause… we both know I like it.”

Reaching up, Cas traces the line of Dean’s jaw with his fingers. “Oh, I’m well aware. And I don’t really care. When do we ever do anything the way other people do?”

With a huff, Dean agrees. “True.”

They trade a quiet smile, eyes locked in the moment. Cas wraps his arms around Dean’s waist and angles up for a kiss. Dean greets him midway and the slow collision steals his breath from his lungs.

Dean tastes like Christmas. Warm and sweet.

His lips meld and shape to Cas’ own, both of them taking their time to embrace the nuance of each sensation. How it feels when it’s shaped through love, no longer hidden but bare and naked.

Silence creeps between them. Different than it was the first time. Potent and heavy with a sense of understanding and forethought. There’s a future this time, something unknown.  Something that both excites and terrifies him.

Cas pulls off Dean’s shirt, the kiss breaking apart for a breath as the fabric swishes between their faces and is discarded behind the couch.

A soft grin twitches at the corner of Dean’s mouth. “You’re gonna turn me into a slob,” he whispers, barely grazing Cas’ lips.

“Doubtful.”

Dean laughs under his breath as his fingers slide up into Cas’ hair, pulling him closer. Mouths crashing together again, Cas drags in a breath and deepens the kiss.

For a long unending minute, he dips his tongue into Dean’s mouth and feels the wetness and the heat, kissing him the way he’s always wanted to. With care and kindness and a profound desire to make Dean feel how much he’s loved and protected. Even from himself and that beautiful chaos inside his mind and body.

Cas abruptly hates the feel of fabric on his skin, needing the silken warmth of Dean’s inked flesh to satisfy him. He tears it off and sets darkened eyes on Dean who bites his lip and looks back at him—wide-eyed and vulnerable.

Love has ripped apart Dean’s perceived control on life and it’s clear the notion scares him in these weighted moments.

“I love you,” Cas tells him, holding his gaze, making the words count, seeing them sink in.

Dean’s smile twitches into place and he seems… humbled. It warms Cas’ chest, makes his breaths feel tight with emotion.

“I love you too,” Dean whispers back, his voice thick and rocky.

Sporting a crooked smile, Cas tightens his arm around Dean’s waist and lifts—guiding them both into a much preferred horizontal position.

He lays Dean out on the well-loved and well-used couch and settles himself between Dean’s parted legs. God, he loves this man. From his intelligence to his quirks and everything in between. There is no such thing as flaws. There’s only perfection muted by uniqueness.

Castiel places a tender kiss to Dean’s mouth, then his cheek, moving towards his ear. He offers a gentle kiss there too, taking a nibble of his earlobe before ducking lower to suck at the sensitive thin flesh of his throat.

“Fuuuck,” Dean groans, arching under him.

The feel of Dean’s rock solid erection shoving against his hips has Cas breathing hard into Dean’s skin, his tongue snaking out to trace a line down to Dean’s collarbone and following the edge of ink there from the monster tattoo.

Moving with patience and reverence, Cas kisses a path down Dean’s body, loving the way his best friend undulates beneath him, moaning into every touch.

There are few tattoos on Dean’s front… but that will change and Castiel has a perfect idea in his mind. He kisses the inner line of Dean’s rib, tonguing down his belly, and smiles to himself.

He looks up to find dark green eyes blazing down at him. “Fuck….” Dean says shakily, “the shit your touch does to me… it’s fucking insane.”

“Too much?”

“Never.”

Cas drops his eyes down to Dean’s skin, his mind picturing a new piece. “I want to design you something new.” He kisses the spot. “Right here.”

“Yeah?” breathes Dean, sinking his fingers into Cas’ hair.

“A rabbit. Very twisted though. Fitting of the story… and of our own strange little journey.”

Dean laughs, making his belly tremble under Cas’ chin. “That’d be fucking perfect.”

As Cas resumes mapping out Dean’s body with his tongue, the mirth dulls and fades away. All that’s left are ragged breaths and the sound of the couch creaking every few seconds as Cas shuffles and moves lower.

He stops only to tug off Dean’s jeans and boxers, very much enjoying having a naked Dean all to himself and no longer this off-limits taunt of a man strutting through their apartment.

Tossing Dean’s discarded clothes to the floor, he stands next to the couch and looks down. Dean watches him intently.

Cas undoes the button on his jeans and slides down the zipper, purposefully giving Dean a little show. After he’s kicked away his own clothes, he strokes his cock and watches Dean’s body twitch in anticipation on the couch, ripples of baited tension moving under his skin like waves.

When Dean breaks the silence with a low whine, Cas bends over and kisses him hard and rough. Devouring him. But Dean loves it, surrendering easily to Cas' sudden frenzy, his entire frame moving with the kiss.

Just as Dean is really starting to moan, low and rough in the back of his throat, tense hands gripping at his own hips but steering clear of his cock, Cas breaks away and grins. “Be right back.”

“What?! Where are you going?”

Cas chuckles and gently drags Dean’s knee to the side before letting his hand drift up between the man’s legs. He slips lower and drags a very dry finger against Dean’s hot, tight entrance.

A thready exhale ghosts past Dean’s lips. “Right… right… God, I just wanna get to it.”

“Patience, Dean.” As he says the words he lays his palm against Dean’s stubbled cheek and holds his stare for a few short seconds. Dean nods, and only then does Cas move away from him.

He’s back from his room in no time with a bottle of lube and a small towel for cleanup later on. Dean sees both items and smiles. There’s a light in his eyes, like hope, that Cas is sure he never saw before they got together.

Cas preps Dean without breaking away from his face, their focus glued to each other. Bracing his weight with one hand on Dean’s upraised knee, he leans in lower and drives his two fingers into Dean with a rhythmic pace, not rapid nor slow but steady and hard. Making him feel his presence and withdrawal.

“You’re gorgeous like this,” says Cas, curling his digits inside Dean, watching the man press down with his hips, a choppy groan bubbling out of his chest.

Dean doesn’t say anything back, he just blushes and tries to look away. But a dip of Cas’ chin and a hard eye keep him present and there.

“Fuck, Cas… there’s no one else like you.”

He smiles cockily. “Obviously.”

Cas withdraws his fingers, trailed by a grumpy whimper from Dean. But Cas doesn’t make him wait or suffer any longer. Edging Dean, while thoroughly fascinating and enjoyable, is not on the menu tonight.

He tucks his hands under Dean’s knees and guides them back to his chest, positioning himself at the same time.

What feels like a small eternity stretches between them as they stare at one another. Dean’s presence is webbed and threaded through his entire life, deep into his heart and soul. It makes the physical connection seem like an overdose, a sweet brainless high he’s never experienced before.

He arches over and kisses Dean’s mouth hard and passionately, his heart overrunning his mind. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s guided his cock to the heated core of Dean’s body, pressing against him.

“Fuck me,” Dean murmurs into the kiss, desperation clinging to his ragged voice.

Cas breathes out against Dean, unable to tear away from the trust in his eyes, and buries himself inside his best friend, bottoming out in one long thrust, both of them gasping for air as their hips collide with a thud.

Usually, he would wait. He would pause. Savour the moment and tease the feeling. But he can’t, his own control has slipped and his heart has taken over. The desire to ravish Dean and claim him is too strong to be ignored.

He captures Dean’s face, feels his friend’s muscular thighs locked against his ribs, and groans loud, obscenely. As if he’s the one breaking after all of this. “God, I love you so much,” he admits.

Dean swallows and stares up at him. He licks his lips. “Show me.”

With a growl, Cas draws back and slams into Dean enough to punch the air from his lungs. Nothing is tempered after that. They come together over and again, hard and rough and needy and desperate. An explosion of moments lost over time. All of it rushing into the here and now.

Cas always believed making love had to be a slow act, something careful and tender. But this? This is wild and raw and sweaty and it’s the purest form of love he could imagine. Nothing could ever top it. The way Dean is gazing up at him, eyes nearly black, lower lip trembling with each bone-jarring thrust.

“Oh fuck,” Dean groans, gripping into Cas’ unkempt hair with one hand and clawing at his shoulder with the other.

Cas curls his hips into Dean over and over, a savage energy roaring inside him, mumbling curses and exultations at every snug feel of Dean’s body gripping around his shaft, drawing the pleasure from him, into him. Arousal  pulsing and weaving through his veins.

Climax is just out of reach. He wants to pause and appreciate the tension in his own muscles, the heavy ache in his groin but instead, he crowds over Dean and covers his parted mouth in a heated kiss and fucks into him with every ounce of shattering emotion inside him.

Both them are groaning, expelling hot breaths into the other, their skin slick with sweat. As Cas nears the brink of what will surely be an exquisite, mind-blowing orgasm, he gropes down Dean’s body in search of his sex.

Barely breaking the tangle of their lips and tongues, he raggedly asks, “May I touch you? I want to overwhelm you the way you do to me.”

Dean rolls up into him and finds his eyes, the intensity of his gaze is staggering. “Fuck, Cas… you can do whatever you want to me. I’m yours… I’m fucking yours.”

“Mmngh,” Cas grumbles and licks into Dean’s mouth as he resumes driving into Dean, hips rutting hard and quick, his cock throbbing and on the verge with every thrust. When he almost can’t take it anymore, when it hurts to hold his orgasm back, he palms possessively across Dean’s abs and reaches for the heavy heated ridge of his cock.

Cas grips around him. Skin blazing hot over an iron hard core. Dean whimpers and cries out with the sudden jerking motion of Cas’ hand.

It’s not precise or guided or notably skilled but they rut and writhe against each other, sweat-slick skin sliding together, barelling towards release.

Cas feels Dean’s inner walls tighten around him and he nearly breaks. “Fuck, Dean… do that again. Squeeze around me.”

With a soft hitch in his breath, Dean’s mouth drops open.

Everything turns fuzzy as Dean’s ass starts to constrict around his cock, leaving them both whimpering and broken, ecstasy and emotion having torn them each apart.

“Dean, fuck… Dean, oh god.” The rise of pleasure hits Castiel like thunder. Resounding through his body, startling, rumbling. He comes in waves, shaking and gasping through it.

Dean is right there along with him, the man’s entire body trembling and trapped beneath Cas’ weight and the couch, his release soaking Cas’ hand, and everywhere in the immediate proximity. Their skin, the couch. Maybe the floor?

Every breath is heavy and loud, uncontrollable for now. Until his body comes down from the high. Until his heart stops hammering against his chest.

“I meant…” he chases his breath, “I meant to go slower,” he says apologetically to Dean.

His best friend smiles lazily up at him, chest and stomach glazed with come. “I love watching you go wild like that… Goddamn beautiful, Cas. Seriously.”

He blushes, uncharacteristically. “That was definitely wild.”

“You know what else is wild?”

“What?”

“You moving into my room.” Dean winks.

Cas shakes his head and then lets it drop to Dean’s chest. No doubt getting his hair messy. “Asking me to move in? Dean… that’s so forward of you,” he teases, laughing a little given the fact they already live together.

“What can I say? Might’ve taken me a damn long while, but when I know what I want... I know what I want. And dammit, Cas, I want you. For the long haul.”

“Down the rabbit hole for good, huh?”

Dean chuckles. “Hells yeah. Version 2.0 for the win, baby!”

A sated, fierce growl of sheer delight tears past Cas’ lips and he plants a hard kiss to Dean’s lips. Both of them humming their joint pleasure. Sated. Relieved.  _Content._

Cas left home at eighteen feeling discarded and distrustful of the human race. But, in Dean, he found everything the world had never offered him. And he knew he would spend his life striving to be everything Dean would ever want or need.

No matter what it was. Or how kinky.

Because love isn’t predictable or linear. It can hide and it can be something you never thought it would be. You don’t simply learn about the one you’re falling in love with, you discover new parts of yourself.

“I never expected this,” he quietly says to Dean.

Dean kisses him. “Definitely makes two of us. Thank god for dirty dreams, huh?”

Laughing, Castiel shakes his head. “Yes. Thank god for that.”

 

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it to the end of this fic, you have a million thanks and hugs from me. I had a hard time writing this while being mushy-brained and exhausted and it means the world to me that anyone would take the time to read it and/or like/comment/rec it. 
> 
> Seriously though, likes and comments and fic recs do wonders for my mental state and motivation. If you've liked the fic, I would love it if you would let me know!


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